CONTRITE 
HEARTS 


V 


HERMAN -BERNSTEIN 


CONTRITE    HEARTS 


CONTRITE 
HEARTS 


BY 
HERMAN    BERNSTEIN 

Author  of  "  In  the  Gates  of  Israel  " 


(/f  broken  and  a  CONTRITE  HEART,  O  God,  thou  wilt  not 
despise.. —  PSALMS,  Chapter  51,  verse  17.) 


NEW  YORK 
A.  WESSELS   COMPANY 


Copyright,  1905,  by 

A.  WESSELS  COMPANY 

New  York 


The  Plimpton  Press  Norwood  Mass. 

Printed  by  Braumvorth  &•  Co. 

Bookbindtrs  and  Prititcrs 

Brooklyn,  N.Y. 


I  DEDICATE  THIS  BOOK 

TO 
THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  FATHER 


2134411 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

TO  write  of  Jewish  life  is  to  handle  a  most 
delicate  subject.  There  are  so  many 
ever-ready,  though  by  no  means  ever-just  fault- 
finders in  Israel,  there  are  so  many  different 
sections  to  be  pleased  —  and  to  please  one  is  to 
displease  the  others  —  that,  I  believe,  if  one  were 
to  adapt  the  treatment  of  his  work  to  the 
various  tastes  he  would  necessarily  fail  to  do 
justice  to  the  subject  —  for  it  is  impossible  to 
please  all  and  yet  be  sincere. 

In  this  story  of  the  Jews,  as  in  my  earlier 
stories,  I  have  striven  to  present  the  life  I  know, 
with  frankness  and  in  the  simplest  terms  at  my 
command. 

HERMAN  BERNSTEIN. 


CONTENTS 


PART  I. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — THE  STORM 3 

II. — FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER      .    .     .  16 

III. — MENDEL  AND  ESTHER    .      ...  30 

IV. — IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  PRAYER  ...  46 

V. — AFTER  THE  STORM 54 

VI. — NAPHTOLI  THE  WATCHMAKER  .     .  65 

VII. — THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT    ...  78 

PART  II. 

I. — LETTERS  HOME 91 

II. — GRANAT  AND  LAMPERT    .    .    .     .  101 

III.— THE  VIOLINIST 108 

IV. — ANOTHER  CALAMITY 119 

V. — THE  ELOPEMENT 125 

VI. — THE  AWAKENING  OF  MIRIAM  .     .132 

VII. — EPHRAIM'S  RETURN 138 

VIII. — THE  SHATTERED  NEST    .    .    .    .143 

PART  III. 

I. — THE  SHOP 153 

II.— THE  SISTERS 166 

III. — THE  QUEST  OF  MIRIAM  .    .    .    .180 

IV.— THE  BROTHERS 188 

V. — EPHRAIM  AND  MIRIAM     .    .     .     .193 

VI. — DAYS  OF  MOURNING 201 

VII. — THE  LAND  OF  SURPRISES  .211 


PART  i 


CONTRITE  HEARTS 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  STORM 

IT  was  about  eleven  o'clock  of  a  stormy 
night  in  1890.  A  tall,  broad-shouldered 
man  walked  briskly  down  Granat's  hill 
overlooking  the  Dniepr.  Despite  the  heavy 
rain,  he  carried  no  umbrella;  his  leather  top- 
shoes  squeaked  jarringly.  The  rain  was  beat- 
ing into  his  large-boned  face;  it  was  streaking 
down  his  cloth  cap,  upon  his  hair  and  beard, 
and  into  his  collar,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  heed 
it  in  the  least.  Every  little  while  he  turned 
around,  and  paused  in  agitation.  Then  he 
stroked  his  beard  and  his  mustaches  nervously, 
and  resumed  his  walk. 

"I  will  show  her  who  I  am!"  he  muttered  to 
himself  from  time  to  time.    "I'll  teach  her 
what  it  means  to  disobey  me!"    And  mechan- 
[3] 


Contrite  Hearts 


ically  his  right  hand  clutched  the  leather  belt 
which  girdled  his  waist. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  he  was  returning 
home.  In  the  daytime  his  little  house  looked 
like  a  black  wart  upon  the  face  of  the  grass- 
covered  hill.  Now  it  was  not  discernible  at  all 
save  for  the  two  small  windows  which,  like 
eyes,  stared  timidly  into  the  darkness,  —  the 
lights  within  blinked  and  trembled.  The  thun- 
dering and  the  lightnings  were  now  growing 
duller  and  fainter,  but  the  rain  kept  pattering 
forcibly  and  monotonously  upon  the  shingle- 
covered  roof,  and  the  boisterous  wind  still 
swung  the  shutters  back  and  forth  with  a  deaf- 
ening noise. 

Israel  Lampert,  the  tall  man,  had  to  bend 
his  head  when  he  entered  the  door  of  the  hall- 
way. On  the  right  side  stood  a  huge,  uncovered 
barrel  filled  with  water;  near  the  barrel  lay  a 
pile  of  birch  for  the  stove.  Towards  the  left 
was  a  small  bucket,  into  which  the  rain  was 
dripping  noisily  from  a  crack  in  the  roof.  In 
his  haste  Isroel  overturned  this  bucket,  and 
muttering  something  under  his  breath,  he 
crossed  the  threshold,  forgetting  to  kiss  the 
[4] 


The  Storm 


mezuzoh1  which  was  fastened  to  the  side-post 
in  the  doorway. 

"Not  yet?"  he  asked  in  a  quivering  voice. 

His  wife,  Beile  Reize,  shook  her  head  in 
silence,  and  lowered  her  eyes  to  the  socks  she 
was  mending. 

Isroel  removed  his  overcoat  and  threw  it  on 
the  table.  Then  he  took  off  his  cloth  cap  and 
wrung  the  water  out  of  it. 

"Has  Miriam  come  back  already?"  he  asked 
after  a  brief  pause,  without  looking  at  his  wife. 

"Yes,  she's  in  the  bedroom,"  replied  Beile 
Reize  timidly,  adjusting  the  tea-glass  in  the 
sock,  and  resuming  her  work. 

Isroel  entered  the  bedroom,  where  the  flick- 
ering, dim  lamplight  fell  upon  the  figure  of  a 
dark-haired  girl  of  about  fifteen.  Her  face  was 
hidden  in  the  pillow. 

"Nu?"  he  queried  impatiently. 

The  girl  gave  a  start,  tossed  her  hair  back, 
raised  her  tear-stained  eyes  and  shook  her  head. 

"I  could  not  find  her,"  she  said.  "I  went  up 
to  Gittel's  house,  to  Sonya's  house.  I  asked 

1 A  small  scroll  of  parchment,  with  "  Hear  O  Israel "  written 
on  it. 


Contrite  Hearts 


Dveire  Rotenfeld,  —  they  told  me  she  was  not 
there  this  evening.  .  .  .  But,  perhaps,  on  ac- 
count of  the  storm—"  she  added  irresolutely, 
not  daring  to  meet  her  father's  eyes. 

"Hush!"  he  cried,  stamping  his  foot.  "Do 
not  try  to  defend  her  —  she  will  have  to  defend 
herself — do  you  hear?  She  will  have  to  account 
for  each  and  every  step  she  made  to-night! 
But  woe  to  her  if  she  thinks  she  can  fool 
me!"  Isroel  ran  his  ringers  through  his  long, 
black  hair,  and,  clutching  it,  opened  his  eyes 
wide.  Suddenly  his  head  bent  down,  he  crossed 
his  arms  on  his  breast,  stepped  out  of  the  bed- 
room, and  began  to  pace  the  large  room  from 
the  door  to  the  window,  and  from  the  window 
to  the  door.  His  high  forehead  was  furrowed 
with  deep  wrinkles,  his  eyebrows  twitched  ner- 
vously, and  his  brown  eyes  flashed  with  anger. 

Without  lifting  her  eyes  from  her  work,  Beile 
Reize  sat  motionless,  her  head  bent,  like  a 
young  tree  before  a  storm.  Only  her  ringers 
holding  the  needle  moved,  and  now  and  then 
her  lips  stirred,  for  she  was  praying.  She  loved 
her  eldest  daughter  Esther  with  all  her  heart. 
For  twenty  years,  ever  since  the  girl  was  born, 
[6] 


The  Storm 


Beile  Reize  was  dreaming  of  the  day  when  her 
first-born  daughter  would  be  led  under  the 
nuptial  canopy  by  a  righteous  man,  —  by  a  man 
learned  in  the  Talmud  and  walking  in  the  ways 
of  the  Lord. 

And  Esther  grew  up  a  wonderful  girl.  To- 
gether with  her  father's  pupils  she  studied  the 
Bible,  and  at  the  age  of  thirteen  she  knew  most 
of  it  by  heart.  She  had  been  a  pious  child, 
never  missed  any  prayers,  and  on  Holy  days 
she  would  sit  beside  her  mother  in  the  syna- 
gogue and  read  aloud  the  prayers  with  emotion, 
with  fervor,  with  tears  in  her  voice.  And  those 
women  whose  eyes  had  grown  dim,  or  who 
could  not  read  the  prayers  themselves,  would 
follow  her  words,  repeating  them  after  her  with 
emotion,  with  fervor,  with  tears  in  their  voices. 
No  one  was  equal  to  Beile  Reize  at  such  mo- 
ments. No  one's  heart  throbbed  with  so  much 
pride,  with  so  much  gratitude  to  the  Lord! 

Though  Isroel's  all  vocations  combined  — 
and  he  was  Cantor,  Melamed,1  Shokhet,2  and 

1  Hebrew  teacher. 

2  Slaughterer  of  cattle  and  fowl  in  accordance  with  the  Jewish 
law. 


Contrite  Hearts 


Reader  of  the  Law  —  yielded  barely  enough  to 
keep  the  family's  hopes  for  a  future  life  from 
dying,  Beile  Reize  bore  the  Lord  no  grudge. 
She  never  envied  those  that  lived  in  luxury, 
and  never  begged  the  Lord  for  riches.  In  her 
prayers  she  entreated  God  to  bless  her  sons, 
Aaron  and  Joseph,  so  that  their  hearts  shall 
yearn  for  His  Torah,  that  their  minds  shall  be 
bright  to  penetrate  the  intricacies  of  the  Talmud 
and  fathom  the  depths  of  His  laws,  and  that 
their  feet  shall  be  swift  and  firm  to  walk  in  the 
ways  of  the  righteous.  As  for  her  daughters, 
she  prayed  to  God  that  they  shall  marry  Rabbis 
of  great  communities. 

"O  Lord,  would  that  all  we've  been  told 
about  Esther  this  evening  turn  out  to  be  a  lie!" 
This  brief  prayer  she  kept  repeating  inwardly 
throughout  the  evening.  Beile  Reize  resolved 
to  throw  eighteen  kopeks  into  the  box  of  Reb 
Meyer  Baal  Haness,1  if  the  Lord  would  hear 
her  prayer  and  grant  her  request.  But  the 
clock  ticked  and  ticked  her  hope  away;  her 
heart  was  choking  with  tears,  and  her  head  was 
reeling.  Then  she  dropped  her  work  to  the 

1  The  Man  of  Miracles. 
[8] 


The  Storm 


floor,  staggered  into  the  bedroom,  and,  falling 
on  the  bed  beside  Miriam,  sobbed. 

The  storm  was  still  raging;  the  wind  howled 
and  whistled  in  the  chimney,  as  if  imploring  to 
be  admitted  into  the  house.  In  the  distance, 
the  splashing  of  the  Dniepr  was  heard ;  now  it 
was  the  angry  roaring  of  a  beast,  next  the 
gurgling  of  a  dying  man,  then  again  the  roaring 
of  a  wild  beast. 

Isroel  was  still  pacing  up  and  down  the  room 
with  rapid  strides.  Yoshke,1  with  a  thin,  yel- 
lowish face,  his  hair  cropped  closely,  his  black 
eyes  bulging  out,  an  expression  of  awe  on  his 
features,  sat  by  the  long  table  and  read  a 
Yiddish  "historical  novel"  of  Joseph  and  his 
brethren,  in  a  soft  sing-song.  Opposite  him 
sat  Zipke,  a  plump  little  girl  with  flaxen  locks, 
with  large,  gray  eyes  and  red  cheeks.  She  was 
now  absorbed  playing  lotos  with  her  brother 
Arke,  a  pug-nosed,  brisk  little  fellow,  with  a 
narrow  forehead  and  protruding  ears.  Each 
time  he  found  on  his  card  the  number  called  by 
Zipke,  he  snapped  his  fingers,  and  burst  into 
forced  laughter,  thus  displaying  a  set  of  crooked, 

1  Diminutive  for  Joseph . 
[9]     ' 


C&ntrite  Hearts 


yellow  teeth.  Each  time  a  thunder  pealed, 
Zipke  and  Arke  looked  at  each  other  with 
frightened  eyes,  and  repeated  with  awe : "  Blessed 
art  Thou,  O  Lord  our  God,  King  of  the  uni- 
verse, whose  power  and  might  fill  the  world." 

The  wooden  clock  on  the  wall  struck  twelve. 
Beile  Reize  came  out  of  the  bedroom.  She  had 
a  dark  shawl  wrapped  around  her  shoulders, 
and  a  pair  of  her  husband's  boots  on  her  feet. 

"Where  are  you  going? "asked  Isroel,  sternly. 

"It's  twelve  o'clock  already;  I'll  go  out. 
Perhaps  Reb  Mordecai  was  in  error;  perhaps 
it  was  not  our  Esther  he  saw  with  that  —  with 
that  apostate." 

Beile  Reize  quivered  as  she  spoke. 

"Stay  home!  Enough!  We  will  not  wait 
for  her  any  longer!"  Isroel  interrupted  her, 
firmly. 

"God  be  with  you,  perhaps  something  has 
befallen  her,  it's  so  stormy.  It  may  be  that 
she  slipped  and  fell,  God  forbid,"  said  Beile 
Reize  beseechingly,  wiping  her  eyes  with  the 
corner  of  her  shawl. 

"Would  to  God  it  were  so!  But  Reb  Mor- 
decai swore  to  me  that  she  was  with  the  me- 

[10] 


The  Storm 


shumed!1  And  Reb  Mordecai  is  a  pious  Jew. 
He  would  not  bear  the  name  of  the  Lord  in 
vain!  Do  you  understand?  She  lied  to  us 
when  she  said  she  was  going  to  Gittel's  house. 
Reb  Mordecai  himself  saw  her  at  nine  o'clock 
walking  past  the  boulevard,  near  the  theatre, 
with  the  meshumed.  Beile,  take  off  your  shawl, 
and  stay  at  home." 

She  returned  to  the  bedroom  and  burst  into 
tears  again. 

"Yoshke,  put  the  book  away  and  go  to 
sleep ! "  Isroel  cried  to  the  boy.  "Do  you  hear ? 
Read  the  night  prayer  and  go  to  sleep!" 

"Just  one  page  more,  to/e,2"  begged  the  boy. 

"Go  to  bed,  I  say!"  thundered  the  father, 
lowering  his  hand  to  his  belt.  Yoshke  under- 
stood that  it  was  becoming  dangerous  to  keep 
his  seat  much  longer,  so  he  jumped  off  the 
bench,  and  rushing  over  to  the  book-shelf,  took 
down  a  prayer-book  and  began  to  read  the 
night  prayers. 

"Zipke,  go  over  to  Shleimke,  rock  him  awhile ; 
he'll  remain  without  a  heart  from  crying,"  said 
Isroel  as  he  began  to  pace  the  room  again. 

1  Apostate.  »  Father. 


Contrite  Hearts 


Zipke  immediately  jumped  down  from  the 
bench  and,  shaking  her  forefinger  at  Arke, 
whispered : 

"Don't  touch  anything  there  on  the  cards,  — 
go  away  from  the  table."  And  stepping  back- 
wards, still  watching  her  brother,  fearing  lest 
he  might  cover  some  number  while  she  did  not 
look,  she  came  over  to  Shleimke,  the  infant,  who 
lay  screaming  in  a  basket,  which  was  fastened 
with  ropes  to  the  ceiling,  —  right  above  the  oven. 
She  rocked  the  basket,  and  sang  softly,  auto- 
matically: 

"Der  Malachel,  der  gutter,  wet  dock  sein  dein 

hitter, 

Shlof,  zhe,  shloj,  mein  kind  ..." 
(The  angel,  the  good  one,  will  be  thy  guar- 
dian, sleep,  O  sleep,  my  child.) 

' '  Arke ! ' '  commanded  the  father.  ' '  Close  the 
shutters  and  go  to  sleep!  Read  lShma'l\" 

All  began  to  bustle  about,  —  Yoshke,  in  the 
corner,  swinging  his  body  back  and  forth, 
recited  mechanically:  "On  my  right  —  Michael! 
on  my  left  —  Gabriel ;  before  me  — Uriel;  be- 

1  Hear,  O  Israel." 


The  Storm 


hind  me  —  Raphael,  and  the  spirit  of  God 
overhead.  .  .  .  ' 

Zipke  rocked  the  basket  and  sang,  at  the  top 
of  her  voice,  endeavoring  to  drown  the  child's 
screams:  "Shlof,  zhe,  shloj,  mein  kind"  From 
the  bedroom  came  the  muffled  sobs  of  Beile 
Reize  and  Miriam.  Arke  ran  out  several  times 
to  close  the  shutters,  but  the  wind  tore  them 
open  again,  and  they  creaked  on  their  hinges 
and  struck  against  the  window-frames  with 
force,  and  the  panes  kept  rattling. 

Isroel  resumed  walking  up  and  down  the 
room.  His  eyes  bespoke  intense  agitation,  and 
the  frown  on  his  brow  was  the  dark  cloud 
heralding  the  outburst  of  the  gathering  storm. 

" Where  is  Mendel  so  late?"  he  asked  sud- 
denly, pausing  on  the  threshold  of  the  bedroom. 

"Mendel?  Where  should  he  be?  He  must 
be  looking  for  her,"  replied  Beile  Reize. 

"As  soon  as  Mendel  returns,  we  lock  the 
door,  and  go  to  sleep!"  said  Isroel.  A  little 
later  he  lowered  the  flame  of  the  lamp,  and  the 
large  room  plunged  into  half-darkness.  The 
portraits  of  the  Goan  of  Vilna  and  of  Rabbi 
Izkhok  Elkhonon,  gracing  the  whitewashed 
[13] 


Contrite  Hearts 


walls  of  this  room,  which  served  as  a  Kheder1 
by  day,  stood  out  strikingly,  and  as  Isroel 
walked  back  and  forth,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
the  eyes  of  these  great  men  were  following  him 
sternly  and  angrily,  full  of  reproach;  though  he 
tried  to  brush  this  thought  aside,  yet  he  now 
and  again  found  himself  eying  the  portraits  on 
the  wall,  and  he  was  seized  with  fear. 

"Beile  Reize,  are  you  sleeping?"  he  called, 
stroking  his  earlocks  with  trembling  fingers.  "I 
would  swear  that  I  hear  the  sound  of  footsteps 
on  the  hill."  He  walked  over  to  the  window 
and  listened. 

By  this  time  all  had  become  quiet  in  the 
little  house  on  the  hill.  Zipke  slept  on  the 
tabouret  beside  the  cradle.  Arke  snored  over 
his  lotos,  by  the  table,  and  Yoshke  lay  on  his 
bed,— a  large  board  placed  upon  two  tabourets, 
—  dreaming  of  Joseph's  greatness  in  the  land 
of  Egypt,  and  of  Juda's  strength. 

Beile  Reize  rushed  out  on  tiptoe;  her  face 
brightened  up  with  hope,  but  her  heart  sank 
when  she  noticed  the  fury  mirrored  in  her 
husband's  eyes. 

1  Hebrew  school. 
[14] 


The  Storm 


Presently  the  door  opened  and  a  young  man, 
pale,  slim,  dark-eyed  and  dark-haired,  entered 
breathlessly. 

"Esther  is  coming,"  he  said  in  a  whisper. 
Then  he  added  imploringly: 

"Speak  to  her  with  kindness;  perhaps  that 
will  be  the  best  way." 

"Mendel,  teach  me  not!"  flared  up  the  old 
man,  excitedly.  "Beile  Reize,  and  you,  Men- 
del, I  beg  you,  go  out  and  take  the  children 
with  you,  —  leave  me  alone  with  her.  I  will 
speak  to  her." 

"Sh!  She's  in  the  hallway!"  whispered  Mendel, 
and,  taking  Arke  and  Zipke  in  his  arms,  carried 
them  into  the  adjoining  room.  Isroel  height- 
ened the  flame  of  the  lamp,  and,  folding  his 
arms  on  his  breast,  paused  in  the  middle  of  the 
room. 


t'Sl 


CHAPTER  II 

FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER 

ESTHER  entered  slowly,  but  before  she  had 
time  to  close  the  door,  a  heavy  gust  of  wind 
forced  itself  into  the  room,  extinguishing  the 
light  of  the  lamp.  Esther  remained  at  the 
threshold,  motionless. 

Isroel  knew  that  it  was  his  daughter  Esther, 
but,  disarmed  by  the  sudden  darkness,  he  was 
at  a  loss  what  to  say,  so  he  asked  harshly: 

"Who's  there?" 

"I — Esther,"  she  replied,  with  a  ring  of  firm 
determination  in  her  voice. 

"Beile  Reize,  make  haste,  light  the  lamp!" 
cried  Isroel,  irritated  by  Esther's  tone.  "Our 
daughter  has  brought  darkness  into  the  house!" 
He  endeavored  to  suppress  his  agitation,  but 
his  anger  was  unmistakable. 

Beile  Reize  hastened  from  behind  the  door 
of  the  bedroom  and  began  to  bustle  about, 
[16] 


Father  and  Daughter 


groping  in  the  dark  for  some  time.  When  she 
found  the  matches,  it  took  her  a  few  minutes  to 
light  the  lamp,  for  her  hands  were  trembling. 
Then  she  advanced  a  few  steps  towards  Esther, 
who  still  stood  by  the  door,  with  downcast  eyes; 
but  Isroel  emphatically  motioned  to  her  to 
leave  the  room.  She  looked  at  Esther,  shook 
her  head  mournfully,  cast  a  beseeching  glance 
at  her  husband,  and  walked  out  with  a  deep 
sigh. 

Mendel  was  standing  behind  the  bedroom 
door  with  bated  breath,  tortured  with  fear  and 
jealousy.  From  childhood  on  he  loved  Esther, 
and  now  that  he  had  attained  his  aim,  now  that 
two  of  the  greatest  Rabbis  in  Russia  had  exam- 
ined him  and  found  him  proficient  in  the  Tal- 
mud and  in  Rabbinical  lore,  and  indeed  proph- 
esied for  him  a  great  future  as  a  teacher  in 
Israel,  —  now  that  he  was  at  last  in  a  position 
to  unite  his  Me  with  Esther's  and  make  her 
happy,  his  hopes  were  suddenly  shattered,  — 
shattered  by  an  apostate. 

Like  one  falling  from  a  precipice,  whence 
there  is  no  hope  of  ever  returning,  he  now 
waited  for  the  final  shock.  His  dream  of  mar- 


Contrite  Hearts 


rying  Esther  kept  dwindling  farther  and  farther 
away  as  minute  succeeded  minute.  He  stood, 
breathing  heavily,  quivering,  awaiting  the  ver- 
dict from  Esther's  lips. 

Near  him  on  the  floor  sat  Yoshke,  who  had 
crept  down  from  his  bed  in  his  undershirt. 
Presently  Beile  Reize  joined  them,  sobbing 
softly,  and  mumbling: 

"Oi,  Estherke!    Estherke!" 

"Why  are  you  weeping,  mame1?"  inquired 
Yoshke  after  a  while,  rising  to  his  feet  and 
clinging  to  his  mother's  shawl. 

"Ask  me  not,  my  son,  ask  me  not.  Would 
to  God  that  these  were  my  last  tears.  But  who 
knows?  Dear  God,"  she  said,  choking  with 
sobs. 

"Go  to  sleep,  Yoshke,"  Mendel  begged  the 
boy  in  a  trembling  voice.  "Yoshke,  go  to 
sleep." 

Yoshke  went  back  to  his  bed,  and,  covering 
himself  over  his  head  with  his  father's  old 
coat,  tried  to  sleep,  but  the  loud  voices  in  the 
adjoining  room,  the  mystery  which  seemed  to 
fill  the  whole  house,  and  the  rattling  of  the 

1  Mother. 
[18] 


Father  and  Daughter 


window-panes,  kept  him  awake.  He  seated 
himself  on  the  bed  and,  donning  his  cap,  began 
to  say  the  night  prayers  over  again. 

Isroel  was  now  questioning  his  daughter. 
He  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  his  arms 
akimbo,  his  velvet  skull-cap  resting  on  the  back 
of  his  head. 

"Where  were  you  this  evening?"  he  de- 
manded sternly,  with  flashing  eyes.  "I  want 
to  know  the  truth !  Do  you  hear  ?  The  truth ! ' ' 

"I  was  with  a  friend,"  replied  the  girl  in  a 
low  voice. 

Esther  was  dressed  modestly,  in  a  brown 
skirt  and  a  black  jacket,  and  as  she  stood  there 
with  her  small  black  bonnet  in  one  hand,  and 
an  umbrella  in  the  other,  her  head  bowed,  her 
face  aflush,  her  large  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground, 
her  hair  somewhat  dishevelled  at  the  temples, 
she  looked  beautiful.  Her  face  was  striking 
not  so  much  for  the  regularity  of  its  features  as 
for  the  defiant  expression  about  her  lips,  and 
when  she  raised  her  eyes  they  seemed  to  change 
from  gray  to  black,  and  with  their  color  changed 
also  their  expression. 

"Which  friend?"  asked  the  father,  knitting 
[19] 


Contrite  Hearts 


his  brow.     "Was  it  perhaps  Gittel,  or  Sonya, 
or  Dveire  Rotenfeld?" 

"No." 

"Who  then?  Speak,  or—  '  cried  Isroel 
impatiently,  but  controlled  himself. 

"Bobrovsky,"  she  said,  lowering  her  voice 
almost  to  a  whisper.  Suddenly  she  tossed  her 
head  back  and  faced  her  father. 

"Bobrovsky  the  meshumed,  the  apostate  — 
that  scoundrel,  that  barefooted  student?"  ex- 
claimed Isroel  despondently,  clasping  his  head, 
trembling  in  every  limb.  "Woe  is  me!  Woe 
is  me!  what  will  the  world  say?" 

"Father!"  Esther's  voice  was  firm  and 
clear  now,  and  her  words  came  slowly,  distinctly, 
laden  with  emotion.  "I  do  not  care  what  the 
world  will  say  about  me.  The  world  is  not  so 
perfect,  nor  so  just  as  to  sit  in  judgment  over 
me.  What  pains  me  most  is  the  thought  of  the 
pain  and  sorrow  the  step  I  am  to  take  will 
cause  you  all.  But  I  swear  to  you,  I  am  pow- 
erless to  help  it !  I  cannot,  and  that's  all !  God 
is  my  witness!" 

Isroel  sprang  to  her  and  seized  her  hands 
with  a  firm  grasp. 

[20] 


Father  and  Daughter 


"Silence!  You  brazen-faced  abomination!" 
he  cried,  wild  with  rage.  "Do  not  bear  the 
name  of  the  Lord  in  vain!  Or  I'll  grind  you  to 
ashes!"  and  he  raised  his  arm,  ready  to  strike 
her.  But  Beile  Reize  rushed  out  from  the 
bedroom  and  stationed  herself  between  Isroel 
and  Esther,  outstretching  her  hands  to  shield 
her  daughter. 

"She  cannot  help  it,  Isroel,  she  cannot  help," 
she  said,  imploringly,  not  knowing  exactly  what 
it  was  her  daughter  cannot  help.  Then  she 
fell  on  Esther's  neck  and  wept.  "What  have 
you  done,  my  daughter?  Woe,  woe!  Such  a 
sin.  A  meshumed!" 

Isroel  pointed  to  the  door  angrily. 

"Beile  Reize,  go!  Do  not  disturb  me!  I 
beg  you,  let  me  speak  to  her!"  he  said,  shaking 
with  agitation. 

"Put  away  your  hat  on  the  table,"  he  cried, 
turning  to  Esther,  "put  your  umbrella  in  the 
corner!  Make  haste!  You  stand  here  as  if 
you  were  on  the  way.  Perhaps  your  home  is 
no  longer  good  enough  for  you!" 

Esther  put  the  hat  and  the  umbrella  away, 
seated  herself  on  the  bench,  leaned  her  arms 

[21] 


Contrite  Hearts 


on  the  table  and  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands. 

By  this  very  table  she  had  studied  the  Bible 
together  with  her  father's  pupils;  on  this  seat 
she  had  recited  the  songs  of  Moses  and  Miriam 
and  Deborah  with  so  much  fervor;  here  she  had 
pondered  over  Job,  and  calculated,  with  the 
help  of  the  best  commentators  on  Daniel,  the 
exact  time  of  the  coming  of  the  Messiah;  here 
she  discussed  with  the  boys  the  terrible  war  of 
Gog  and  Magog.  And  as  she  recalled  all  this, 
the  sweet  past  now  choked  her  as  with  iron 
clasps.  She  felt  that  her  head  was  now  filled 
with  chaos,  and  hot  tears  were  streaming  down 
her  cheeks. 

"Esther!"  called  Isroel  after  a  brief  pause. 
But  she  stirred  not  from  her  seat. 

"Esther!"  he  thundered.  "Look  me  straight 
in  my  eyes!  The  words  you  have  said  a  while 
ago  are  not  your  own.  They  are  foreign  to  you. 
You  never  heard  such  words  in  our  house.  You 
make  sport  of  what  the  world  will  say.  The 
Talmud  says:  '  One  must  stand  as  well  with  the 
sentiments  of  the  people  as  with  God  himself.' 
Your  words  must  be  the  words  of  that  apostate." 
[22] 


Father  and  Daughter 


Esther  started  as  if  suddenly  awakened  from 
sleep. 

"True,"  she  said  abruptly,"  but  Bobrovsky 
is  a  learned  man,  and  I  have  learned  to  respect 
him  and  his  words." 

"And  your  father  —  must  you  not  honor 
him  ?  Have  you  forgotten  the  Ten  Command- 
ments? 'Honor  thy  father  and  thy  mother.' 
Is  all  this  nothing  to  you?"  Isroel's  face  red- 
dened, his  eyes  flashed  fire.  Esther  had  never 
before  spoken  to  him  in  such  a  tone  as  this,  — 
Esther,  his  good,  submissive,  pious  first-born 
child.  He  felt  that  he  was  overwhelmed  by  the 
feelings  which  had  accumulated  within  him 
that  night,  —  he  was  suffocating  from  his  own 
emotion. 

"But  I  love  him!"  she  blurted  out,  as  though 
swinging  the  words  from  the  depth  of  her  soul. 
"I  cannot  say  to  my  heart:  'Cease  loving  him!' 
My  heart  would  not  listen  to  me  even  as  it  never 
asked  me  whether  it  was  right  of  me  to  love  him 
at  all."  Esther  rose  and,  straightening  herself, 
regarded  her  father  steadfastly. 

"Esther,   you   have   lost   your  reason.    An 
apostate  —  an  apostate!    Do  you  know  what 
[23] 


Contrite  Hearts 


it  means?"  Isroel  began  to  pace  up  and  down 
the  room  with  rapid  strides,  clutching  his  hair 
violently. 

"Bobrovsky  changed  his  faith,"  burst  out 
the  girl  quickly,  fearing  lest  she  might  be 
interrupted  before  she  had  given  utterance  to 
all  her  thoughts,  "Bobrovsky  changed  his  faith 
not  because  he  found  fault  with  Judaism.  He 
did  it  merely  because  all  his  opportunities  were 
blocked  —  because  as  a  Jew  he  could  accom- 
plish nothing.  He  could  not  enter  the  univer- 
sity after  having  studied  for  eight  years  in  the 
gymnasium.  He  could  not  — 

"He  will  never  accomplish  anything,"  Isroel 
interposed  hotly,  "for  he  who  changes  the 
faith  of  his  fathers  sells  his  birthright  for  a  pot 
of  lentils.  He  sells  his  father,  his  mother,  he 
sells  his  people;  he  sells  the  very  graves  of  his 
forefathers;  he  would  sell  his  wife,  his  children. 
And  if  he  change  his  God,  would  he  not  sell  his 
honor,  love,  duty?  But  no!  These  he  could  not 
sell,  for  such  people  have  no  honor,  such  people 
do  not  love,  such  people  recognize  no  duties." 

"Father!"  she  exclaimed,  "I  am  strong,  —  I 
will  exert  all  my  powers  to  bring  him  back  to 


Father  and  Daughter 


us.  You  shall  see,  the  Jews  will  some  day  be 
proud  of  him.  You  shall  see  it." 

"But  we  Jews  don't  want  such  people  in  our 
midst;  we  don't  want  the  weeds.  Such  people 
never  were  true  Jews,  —  I  know  they  never  will 
be  true  Christians;  they  are  as  a  leprosy  on 
our  body.  They  are  the  'Eirev  Rav,'  —  of 
those  who  joined  the  Israelites  when  they  left 
Egypt,  and  who  grumbled  in  the  desert  against 
Moses  and  the  Lord,  and  who  later  demanded 
the  golden  calf.  Apostates  are  descendants  of 
the  'Eirev  Rav.'  They  are  cowards,  idlers, 
weaklings,  scoundrels.  And  such  is  also  your 
Bobrovsky." 

"  Bobrovsky  is  an  honorable  man.  You  don't 
know  him,"  said  Esther,  choking  with  the  tears 
which  welled  up  to  her  throat.  "I  feel  your 
pain,  my  heart  breaks  for  you  all.  But  what 
can  I  do?  I  love  him.  Solomon  said  in  the 
Proverbs:  'Love  covereth  all  sins.'" 

"Silence!  What's  this?  What  sort  of  phi- 
losophy is  this  for  a  Jewish  daughter?"  thun- 
dered Isroel,  rushing  over  to  Esther,  about  to 
strike  her  a  blow  on  the  cheek.  But  he  once 
more  mastered  himself  and  retreated. 


Contrite  Hearts 


"Go,  now!"  he  cried,  pointing  at  the  door. 
"Leave  the  house!  Begone!  You  are  a  pest! 
May  the  Lord  send  upon  you  cursing,  vexation, 
rebuke,  because  of  the  wickedness  of  your 
doings."  He  quoted  the  Biblical  curse  in 
Hebrew,  and,  exhausted,  sank  back  on  the 
bench  by  the  window,  and  burst  into  a  fit  of 
coughing,  which  shook  his  body  convulsively. 

"Do  not  go  near  her!"  he  cried  suddenly  to 
Beile  Reize  who  ran  over  to  Esther.  "I  say, 
do  not  stand  in  her  'doled  amos'1)" 

Beile  Reize  retreated.  Then,  in  despair,  she 
exclaimed : 

"Isroel,  you  have  no  heart!  Let  me  speak  to 
her;  let  me  weep  before  her;  let  me  beg  her,— 
she  will  drive  that  meshumed  out  of  her  head! 
She  is  a  good  child.  She  has  always  had  the 
Uppermost  in  her  heart!" 

The  children,  awakened  by  the  noise,  sur- 
rounded Esther  and  wept.  Yoshke  and  Arke 
kept  begging  her  to  stay  home. 

"It  is  so  dark  outside!  It  is  so  stormy!" 
they  pleaded,  through  tears. 

Shleimke,  swaying  in  the  basket,  was  now 

1  Space  of  four  yards. 
[26] 


Father  and  Daughter 


screaming  with  all  his  might,  while  Zipke  sat 
on  the  ground,  at  her  father's  feet,  and  implored 
him  not  to  drive  Esther  out  of  the  house. 

Isroel  was  firm. 

"Do  not  go  near  her!"  he  cried  again.  "She 
has  dishonored  us  before  God  and  man,  —  she 
has  broken  my  heart!  Let  her  go  wherever 
her  eyes  will  lead  her!  I  cannot  look  at  her 
brazen  face!" 

Then  Mendel  came  forward  to  plead  for  his 
niece. 

"Reb  Isroel,"  he  began  in  a  tremulous  voice, 
"have  mercy.  Where  will  she  go  at  this  hour 
of  night  ?  Reb  Isroel,  it  is  unjust.  It  is  unjust ! 
Do  not  send  her  away  like  this.  There  may 
be  some  hope  yet.  She  may  repent." 

Beile  Reize  and  Miriam  stood  in  the  doorway 
and  sobbed.  While  Mendel  spoke  Beile  Reize 
shook  her  head,  and  wrung  her  hands  in  despair. 
But  Isroel  was  resolute. 

"Let  her  leave  the  house!"  he  repeated, 
accompanying  his  words  with  a  powerful  bang 
on  the  table. 

Esther,  weeping,  staggered  out  into  the 
stormy  night,  her  head  bent  upon  her  breast. 


Contrite  Hearts 


The  trees  near  the  windows  were  moaning 
plaintively  under  the  fierce  attacks  of  the  wind, 
and  the  rustling  of  the  leaves  kept  up  a  deep 
murmur,  which  deafened  the  sounds  of  Esther's 
uneven  footsteps. 

About  a  half  an  hour  later  Isroel  rose  from 
the  bench,  heaved  a  sigh  and  said: 

"This  is  also  for  the  better!" 

He  turned  to  Beile  Reize  and,  outstretching 
his  arms,  added: 

"Weep  not,  —  the  Lord  has  willed  it.  The 
Creator  of  the  universe  surely  knows  what  He 
is  doing!" 

Beile  Reize  wiped  her  eyes  with  the  corner  of 
her  apron,  and  cried  emotionally,  her  lips 
quivering  with  anger: 

"The  Creator  of  the  Universe  knows  what 
He  is  doing,  —  but  you  —  you  have  no  heart! 
Where  was  such  a  thing  heard?  To  drive  a 
daughter  out  into  the  storm,  at  midnight! 
Would  a  Jew  with  a  real  Jewish  heart  do 
it?" 

"Sh!  Don't  speak  to  me  of  her!"  he  burst 
out  passionately.  "Do  you  hear?  Do  not 
mention  that  abomination  to  me.  She  has  torn 
[a8J 


Father  and  Daughter 


herself  out  of  our  home,  —  out  of  our  people, 
—  and  we  must  tear  her  out  of  our  hearts!" 

He  walked  through  the  room  several  times, 
and  said,  after  a  while,  in  a  low  tone:  "Beile 
Reize,  hand  me  a  glass  of  brandy.  My  heart 
is  burning." 

Beile  Reize  silently  took  down  from  the 
bedroom  shelf  a  bottle  of  Passover  brandy, 
which  had  not  been  touched  for  upwards  of 
five  months,  and  filling  a  small  glass  she  handed 
it  to  her  husband.  Isroel  drank  it,  heaved 
a  deep  sigh,  which  sounded  as  though  some- 
thing had  snapped  within  him,  and  rubbing 
his  hands,  began  to  say  the  night  prayers. 

He  soon  turned  out  the  light,  and  fastened 
the  shutters  which  the  wind  had  blown  open, 
and  the  little  house  on  the  hill,  its  eyes,  as  it 
were,  closed  for  the  night,  seemed  hushed  in 
sleep. 


1*9] 


CHAPTER  III 

MENDEL  AND  ESTHER 

MENDEL  could  not  sleep.  The  image  of 
Esther  hovered  before  his  eyes,  without  leaving 
him  for  a  moment.  He  saw  her  roaming 
through  the  streets,  her  head  bowed  with  shame, 
her  heart  rent  by  the  sobs  of  her  mother  and 
the  vain  pleading  of  the  children,  the  terrible 
curse  of  her  father  ringing  in  her  ears,  pursuing 
her  on  every  step.  He  saw  her  shivering,  all 
alone  with  her  despair,  in  the  dark,  cold, 
storm-swept  town. 

As  he  lay  on  the  bench  which  served  him  as 
a  bed  he  was  wondering  how  all  these  people 
about  him  could  sleep  so  calmly  now  that  such 
a  terrible  misfortune  had  been  hurled  upon 
their  heads.  Isroel's  measured  snoring  in  the 
next  room  irritated,  exasperated  Mendel,  filled 
him  with  disgust.  It  seemed  to  him  that  a  cer- 
tain spirit  of  brutality  mingled  with  childish 
[30] 


Mendel  and  Esther 


indifference  had  winged  into  the  house  like 
some  terrible  demon,  endeavoring  to  crowd  out 
all  thought  of  Esther. 

Mendel  tossed  about  on  the  bench,  fearing 
that  he  was  losing  his  reason,  and  the  noise  of 
the  trees  by  the  window  awakened  a  row  of 
oppressive  thoughts  in  his  mind.  He  felt  that 
soon  a  deafening  sob  would  break  forth  from 
his  heart,  a  sob  which  would  awaken  and 
frighten  all  the  sleepers  in  the  little  house. 
Then  he  would  cry  out  to  Isroel  with  all  the 
anguish  and  bitterness  of  his  soul: 

"  You  are  a  brute !  You  have  no  heart !  You 
have  driven  your  daughter  away  to  a  life  of 
misery,  —  to  a  life  of  sin.  All  her  sins  will  fall 
on  your  head!" 

But  the  thought  of  Bobrovsky,  the  apostate, 
chilled  him,  silencing  his  wrath  toward  Isroel, 
diffusing  weakness  over  all  his  being,  and  filling 
him  with  intense  sorrow  for  Esther,  for  himself. 

Several  times  it  occurred  to  him  that  Esther 
was  moaning  at  the  entrance,  begging  for  for- 
giveness, for  shelter.  He  jumped  up  from  his 
bed,  walked  over  to  the  door,  stepping  cautiously 
over  the  children  who  now  slept  on  the  floor; 


Contrite  Hearts 


he  put  his  ear  to  the  keyhole  and  listened.  He 
heard  nothing  save  the  howling  of  the  wind. 
Then  he  returned  to  his  bed,  heavy  of  heart; 
and  again  gloomy  thoughts,  like  serpents,  crept 
into  his  head,  causing  him  acute  pain. 

Suddenly,  tormented  with  reproach  for  not 
having  followed  Esther,  he  resolved  to  rise  and 
go  about  the  streets  of  the  city  and  seek  for  the 
beloved  of  his  heart.  Perhaps  God  would  help 
him  explain  to  her  all  the  horror,  the  folly,  the 
peril  of  her  step,  —  perhaps  it  was  not  yet  too 
late  to  save  her  from  slipping  and  falling. 

"One  wrong  step  will  sometimes  ruin  a  life," 
he  said  to  himself,  "and  one  word  in  time  will 
often  save  it." 

Then  he  was  seized  with  terror  lest  Esther  in 
despair  might  take  her  life  by  hurling  herself 
into  the  Dniepr,  even  as  one  of  her  friends, 
Liza  Eizenstadt,  had  done  but  a  few  months 
before,  because  her  parents  also  stood  between 
her  and  the  man  she  loved. 

He  must  not  lose  any  time,  he  thought. 
Perhaps  at  this  very  moment  — 

He  closed  his  eyes  with  his  hands.  Soon  the 
figure  of  Bobrovsky  loomed  up  before  him,  — 


Mendel  and  Esther 


tall,  broad-shouldered,  with  an  outworn,  green- 
ish coat,  trimmed  with  blue  stripes,  and  brass 
buttons.  Mendel  recalled  how  he  turned  away 
with  aversion  when  he  met  the  apostate  in  the 
post-office  several  days  before.  At  that  time 
Mendel  did  not  suspect  that  this  student  was  to 
shatter  his  dreams,  his  happiness.  Mendel 
recalled  that  when  he  looked  at  the  student's 
narrow  forehead,  at  his  protruding  lips  which 
were  somewhat  swollen  and  bluish  from  fre- 
quent shaving,  he  remarked  to  a  friend  who 
stood  near  by: 

"The  meshumed  looks  exactly  like  a  singed 
hog!" 

He  recalled  the  greedy  look  in  his  small 
brown  eyes,  the  cunning  smile  on  his  face,  and 
a  sense  of  profound  sorrow  for  Esther  oppressed 
his  heart.  He  felt  that  there  could  be  nothing 
in  common  between  Bobrovsky  and  the  pure, 
the  good,  the  meek,  Jewish  Esther.  But  Esther's 
words  were  ringing  in  his  ears,  like  terrific  blows 
of  a  sledge-hammer: 

"Bobrovsky  is  a  learned  man!"    "I  love 
him!"     "The  Jews  will  some  day  be  proud  of 
him!"     "Bobrovsky  is  an  honorable  man!" 
[33] 


Contrite  Hearts 


Mendel  struggled  hard  to  free  himself  from 
the  terrible  thoughts  which  filled  his  head  with 
chaos. 

"Esther  must  conquer  her  heart!"  he  said 
resolutely,  as  he  began  to  dress  himself  in  great 
haste.  "Did  she  not  say  that  she  is  strong? 
And  who  is  strong  but  he  who  conquers  his  own 
self?" 

As  he  was  opening  the  door,  his  sister  came 
out  from  the  bedroom  and,  placing  her  hand  on 
his  shoulder,  asked  with  anxiety,  in  a  low  voice : 

"Mendel,  where  are  you  going?" 

"HI  be  back  soon,  Beile,"  he  replied.  "Go 
to  sleep." 

Beile  Reize  understood  that  her  brother  was 
starting  out  in  search  for  Esther. 

"Go,  Mendel,  go!"  she  said.  "May  the 
Uppermost  help  you!  Perhaps  — 

Mendel  walked  out  noiselessly,  but  the  door 
creaked  when  Beile  Reize  closed  it,  and  the 
noise  awakened  her  husband. 

"Ha!  Who's  there?"  he  asked  in  a  voice 
heavy  with  sleep. 

"I  would  swear  that  the  cow  walked  out  of 
the  barn,  —  I'll  go  out  and  see,"  replied  Beile 
[341 


Mendel  and  Esther 


Reize,  but  Isroel  was  again  filling  the  house  with 
uneven  yet  monotonous  snoring. 

She  lit  the  lamp,  washed  her  hands,  and 
walked  over  to  the  table  with  noiseless  steps, 
pausing  on  her  way  to  adjust  the  pillow  for 
Zipke's  head,  to  stretch  out  Arke's  legs,  and  to 
wipe  the  perspiration  off  Yoshke's  face.  Then 
she  took  up  her  heavy  prayer-book  and  began 
to  read  the  psalms  inaudibly,  with  emotion  too 
deep  for  tears,  shaking  her  head,  as  if  mourning 
for  the  dead: 

"My  God,  my  God,  why  hast  thou  forsaken 
me  ?  Why  art  thou  so  far  from  me  ?  .  .  .  O  my 
God,  I  cry  in  the  daytime,  but  thou  hearest  not: 
and  in  the  night  season,  and  am  not  silent  ..." 

"Our  fathers  trusted  in  thee;  they  trusted, 
and  thou  didst  deliver  them.  ..." 

"But  I  am  a  worm,  and  no  man  — 

She  lifted  her  eyes,  clasped  her  hands  in 
prayer,  and  mumbled: 

"Good  God!  Thou  knowest  the  depths  of 
every  heart !  Do  I  not  trust  in  Thee  ?  Have  I 
not  brought  up  my  daughter  Esther  in  Thy 
ways?  Wherefore,  dear  God,  dost  Thou  pun- 
ish me  like  this?"  She  sobbed,  resuming  to 
[35] 


Contrite  Hearts 


read  by  the  light  which  flickered  as  though 
about  to  expire. 

Had  she  prayed  but  a  little  louder  her  own 
daughter  Esther  would  have  heard  her  prayer. 
For  she  was  now  seated  upon  a  beam,  in  front 
of  the  little  house,  by  the  window,  facing  the 
Dniepr. 

Esther  had  wandered  through  the  streets  for 
hours;  she  had  stopped  several  times  before  the 
house  where  Bobrovsky  lived,  but  all  was  dark 
within  and  quiet,  and  she  dared  not  enter. 

Now  a  steamer  sailed  past  noisily,  casting 
mysterious  small  lights  over  the  gurgling,  black 
waters;  and  as  Esther  watched  the  departing 
lights  she  felt  that  the  bright  scenes  of  her  life, 
together  with  the  waves  of  the  Dniepr,  were 
drifting  away  farther,  farther,  —  towards  the 
Black  Sea.  She  felt  that  her  life  had  just  been 
broken  in  two,  that  the  first  half  with  all  her 
joys  and  sorrows  was  no  more,  —  that,  indeed, 
it  had  no  longer  any  connection 'with  the  life 
she  was  to  start.  She  realized  that  to-night  she 
was  departing  from  the  peaceful  surroundings 
of  her  humble  home,  and  that  she  was  being 
hurled,  by  the  storm  within  her  own  heart,  into 
[36] 


Mendel  and  Esther 


a  sea  of  unrest,  of  mystery,  —  vague  sweet  prom- 
ises permeating  her  soul  with  sentiments  new 
and  foreign  to  her,  with  sentiments  at  once 
terrible  and  beautiful.  She  sat  as  intoxicated, 
her  elbows  resting  on  her  knees,  her  hands 
supporting  her  chin,  her  eyes  fixed  into  the 
distance. 

The  rain  had  stopped  when  Mendel  came  out 
of  the  house.  Out  of  the  unfathomable  black- 
ness of  the  sky  the  moon  hung  like  a  globe  of 
flame.  It  looked  as  though  there  was  a  terrible 
fire  beyond  the  clouds  and  the  smoke  was  slowly 
sinking  earthward. 

The  trees  by  the  house  still  kept  up  their 
murmur,  which  now  sounded  like  an  angry 
complaint,  now  like  a  soothing  message  of  con- 
solation sent  from  leaf  to  leaf,  and  then  again  it 
sounded  as  if  the  trees  were  sighing,  recalling 
the  terrors  of  the  storm. 

Mendel  stood  awhile,  absorbed  in  thought, 
not  knowing  which  way  to  go.  For  only  now 
he  realized  that  it  would  be  no  easy  task  to  find 
Esther  at  this  hour  of  night. 

Suddenly  the  shrill  sound  of  the  whistle  of  a 
passing  steamer  smote  the  air.  Mendel  started. 
[37] 


Contrite  Hearts 


It  seemed  to  him  like  an  outcry  for  help  — 
plaintive,  drawn-out,  dying  away  in  the  distance. 

"Perhaps  Esther  is  in  need  of  help,"  he 
thought,  as  he  ran  down  the  hill.  He  turned 
to  his  right,  hastening  toward  the  bridge, 
when  a  soft  voice  called  him  by  his  name. 
Mendel  stopped  short,  dumbfounded .  His  heart 
began  to  beat  faster.  It  was  Esther's  voice, 
but  it  sounded  so  faintly  that  he  feared  it  was 
once  more  an  error  on  the  part  of  his  excited 
imagination. 

Mendel  did  not  stir  even  when  he  saw  a 
figure  advancing  toward  him.  When  Esther 
came  close  to  him,  he  seized  her  by  the  hands, 
unable  to  utter  a  word  for  emotion. 

"Where  are  you  going  so  late?"  she  asked. 

"  Where  ?  You  ask  me  where  ?  "  His  words 
now  came  with  nervous  rapidity  and  with  re- 
proach. "I  must  speak  to  you  before  it  is  too 
late!" 

"But  you  are  so  cold,"  he  added,  "you  may 
take  sick — " 

"Never   mind,    you   may   speak,    you   may 
speak,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  without  lifting 
her  eyes  from  the  ground. 
[381 


Mendel  and,  Esther 


They  walked  in  silence  and  turned  mechani- 
cally toward  the  Governor's  Park.  There  they 
seated  themselves  on  a  bench,  and  Esther,  strug- 
gling with  her  tears,  was  first  to  break  the 
painful  silence. 

"Speak,  Mendel,  I  am  waiting,"  she  said, 
laying  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

Mendel  endeavored  in  vain  to  master  himself, 
to  appear  calm. 

"I  really  do  not  know  what  to  say  to  you," 
he  began  in  a  dull  tone,  which  sounded  strange 
to  his  own  ears.  "Perhaps  that  which  I  want 
to  tell  you  does  not  interest  you  any  longer." 
His  lips  began  to  quiver,  tears  came  up  to  his 
throat,  and  he  was  compelled  to  stop. 

"Mendel,"  she  said  reproachfully.  "I  have 
always  considered  you  a  sensible  man.  Can 
you  not  understand  that  I  am  the  same  Esther 
as  before?  I  have  not  changed — " 

"Do  you  know—  "  Mendel's  voice  dropped, 
and  he  seemed  to  be  speaking  to  himself,  not 
heeding  her  words.  "Do  you  know  that  at 
this  moment  your  broken-hearted  mother  is 
reading  the  psalms,  shedding  tears,  praying  for 
you  ?  Esther,  she  is  praying  for  you.  At  this 
[39] 


Contrite  Hearts 


moment  she  does  not  yet  realize  her  misfortune. 
But  I  am  afraid  that  it  will  be  beyond  her  power 
to  bear  it  —  it  will  surely  kill  her!" 

Esther  sobbed  softly.  Mendel  sat  for  a  long 
time  without  uttering  another  word.  He  felt 
as  if  everything  were  whirling  about  him,  —  the 
trees,  the  bushes,  the  benches,  the  pond  beside 
him,  the  Dniepr  below. 

It  was  near  daybreak.  Layers  of  black 
clouds  were  gliding  over  a  sea  of  gray.  Now  a 
fragment,  having  torn  itself  away,  was  drifting 
like  a  block  of  ice.  The  trees  stood  motionless, 
as  though  lost  in  meditation.  Soon  a  cool 
breeze  began  to  blow.  A  crow  cawed  plain- 
tively in  the  distance,  and  then  several  birds  in 
the  neighboring  trees  began  to  sing.  Mendel 
looked  towards  the  east.  He  saw  the  rippling 
waters  of  the  Dniepr  were  tinted  faintly  by  the 
rising  sun. 

"Look!"  he  said  suddenly,  turning  to  Esther, 
and  pointing  to  a  withered  leaf  which  was  falling 
from  a  tree  before  them.  "Esther,  your  fate 
will  be  the  same  as  the  fate  of  this  leaf.  Like 
this  leaf  you  will  be  trampled  under  foot.  You 
will  be  forsaken,  alone,  if  you  tear  yourself 
[40] 


Mendel  and  Esther 


away  from  your  home,  from  your  people.  The 
Jews  will  turn  away  from  you,  and  the  Gentiles, 
in  their  hearts,  will  despise  you.  As  for  Bo- 
brovsky,  I  think  that  he  is  changeable  as  the 
clouds,  unstable  as  the  wind."  His  voice  grew 
louder,  his  earnestness  was  merciless. 

Esther  placed  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"You  speak  like  a  child,"  she  said  mildly, 
beseechingly,  wishing  to  justify  herself  in  his 
eyes.  "You  know  that  a  human  being  cannot 
go  against  the  decrees  of  God.  I  love  Bo- 
brovsky, —  evidently  God  has  decreed  that  it 
shall  be  so.  I—" 

"You  are  wrong,  Esther;  God  wants  to  test 
you,"  interposed  Mendel. 

"You  do  not  understand  me";  she  shook  her 
head  mournfully.  Then  her  eyes  brightened 
up,  and  she  went  on:  "Ah,  if  you  only  knew 
what  it  is  to  love!  the  greatest  masters,  —  poets, 
philosophers,  novelists,  —  all  have  attempted  to 
depict  it,  to  analyze  it,  to  define  it.  Love 
makes  you  forget  everything  else  in  the  world, 
love  robs  you  of  your  reason.  You  can  only 
feel,  feel,  feel." 

Mendel    maintained    silence    for    a    while, 

[41] 


Contrite  Hearts 


then  he  grasped  her  hand,  and  gazed  at  her 
fixedly. 

"Esther!"  he  exclaimed  passionately.  "Look 
into  my  eyes!" 

He  was  about  to  tell  her  that  he  too  felt  the 
throb  of  love  within  his  heart,  that  he  loved  her 
from  childhood  on,  but  with  a  supreme  effort 
he  conquered  himself,  and  said  instead: 

"Esther,  beware  of  the  apostate!" 

"We  never  fear  the  one  we  love,"  retorted 
Esther. 

"  And  you  —  really  —  intend  —  to  —  marry 
—  him?"  Mendel  rose,  still  regarding  her 
steadfastly,  his  soul  in  his  eyes. 

"Yes,"  she  replied  firmly. 

When  Esther  uttered  this  word  it  seemed  to 
him  that  the  cathedral  bells  were  ringing  in  his 
ears,  —  the  bells  which  for  some  reason  or 
other  always  filled  him  with  mysterious  fear. 
He  saw  Esther  standing  beside  Bobrovsky 
in  the  church,  a  stout,  long-haired  priest  giv- 
ing them  the  benediction.  Mendel  shuddered, 
turned  away,  and  walked  off  quickly.  He  felt 
that  the  well  of  faith,  of  hope,  of  joy,  of  peace, 
was  drying  out  within  his  heart.  A  cold,  dark 
[42] 


Mendel  and  Esther 


abyss  of  doubt  and  suffering  stretched  before 
him  as  he  reflected  upon  the  seeming  injustice 
of  all  that  had  happened.  He  could  not  under- 
stand why  the  Lord,  to  whose  teachings  he  had 
dedicated  all  his  life,  should  permit  an  apostate 
to  shatter  his  happiness. 

Mendel  ran  as  if  he  wished  to  escape  from  his 
thoughts.  A  sea  of  house-tops  spread  before 
him  as  he  looked  towards  the  shul-hof,  the 
Jewish  quarter,  which  harbored  most  of  the 
synagogues  as  well  as  most  of  the  poverty  of 
the  Moghilydv  Jews.  He  saw  people  hurrying 
to  houses  of  prayer.  Here  and  there  men  were 
starting  their  day's  work  by  the  river,  which  was 
becoming  animated  with  swarming  floats,  barks, 
and  fishermen's  boats.  As  Mendel  walked 
on,  he  heard  the  blowing  of  the  Shofar1  from 
one  of  the  synagogues,  and  he  reminded  himself 
that  this  was  the  month  of  Elul,  —  four  weeks 
during  which  the  sons  of  Israel  pray  more  fer- 
vently than  usual,  do  more  charitable  work 
than  ever,  and  treat  one  another  with  more 
kindliness,  to  improve  their  record  of  the  passing 
year  before  the  Holy  Days  of  Judgment  set  in. 

1  Horn. 
[43] 


Contrite  Hearts 


When  Mendel,  thinking  of  Esther  and  the 
apostate,  heard  the  sounds  of  the  Shofar  once 
more,  he  trembled.  He  recalled  Isaiah's  ter- 
rible prophecy  as  to  what  would  befall  the  sons 
of  Israel  for  casting  away  the  law  of  the  Lord 
of  hosts. 

"And  he  will  lift  up  an  ensign  to  the  nations 
from  afar,  and  will  hiss  unto  them  from  the 
end  of  the  earth:  —  and,  behold,  they  shall  come 
with  speed  swiftly: 

"None  shall  be  weary  nor  stumble  among 
them;  none  shall  slumber  nor  sleep;  neither 
shall  the  girdle  of  their  loins  be  loosed,  nor  the 
latchet  of  their  shoes  be  broken: 

"Whose  arrows  are  sharp,  and  all  their  bows 
bent,  their  horses'  hoofs  shall  be  counted  like 
flint,  and  their  wheels  like  the  whirlwind: 

"Their  roaring  shall  be  like  a  lion,  they  shall 
roar  like  young  lions:  yea,  they  shall  roar,  and 
lay  hold  of  prey,  and  shall  carry  it  away  safe, 
and  none  shall  deliver  it. 

"And  in  that  day  they  shall  roar  against  them 
like  the  roaring  of  the  sea:  and  if  one  look  unto 
the  land,  behold  darkness  and  sorrow,  and  the 
light  is  darkened  in  the  heavens  thereof." 

[441 


Mendel  and  Esther 


Mendel  now  felt  ashamed  of  his  thoughts  of 
doubt,  he  quickened  his  pace,  and  on  reaching 
home,  took  his  phylacteries,  and  hastened  to  the 
Beth  Hamidrash  to  pray  for  all  the  sons  of 
Israel,  and  to  forget  himself  in  the  study  of  the 
Talmud,  after  the  prayers. 


[45] 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  PRAYER 

ISROEL  LAMPERT  rose  at  six  o'clock,  and 
though  he  immediately  betook  himself  to  the 
Beth  Hamidrash,  the  congregation  was  already 
"standing"  the  Eighteen  Blessings  when  he 
entered.  Isroel  hastily  wrapped  himself  with 
the  prayer-shawl,  fastened  the  philacteries  on 
his  left  arm  and  on  his  head,  and,  to  overtake 
the  congregation,  said  "  Blessed  are  they  that 
dwell  in  thy  house,"  then  "Hear,  O  Israel,"  so 
that  he  started  the  Eighteen  Blessings  when  the 
Reader  began  to  repeat  them.  The  congrega- 
tion recited  with  intense  feeling,  "And  He,  the 
Merciful  One,  forgiveth  iniquity,"  and  then  the 
Scroll  was  taken  from  the  Sacred  Ark  and 
placed  upon  the  desk  in  the  center  of  the  Beth 
Hamidrash.  The  sexton,  a  thin,  stooping, 
long-nosed,  pale  man,  with  black  hair,  and 
large  dark  eyes,  rapped  on  the  desk  with  his 
[46] 


In  the  House  of  Prayer 


emaciated  hand,  and  glanced  toward  Isroel,  who 
now  stood  near  the  Ark,  swaying  his  body  back 
and  forth,  his  eyes  covered  with  his  hands. 

"Reb  Isroel,"  called  the  sexton,  "come  and 
read  the  Law." 

But  Isroel  made  no  reply.  He  merely  shook 
his  head  and  stroked  his  beard  nervously. 

"Reb  Isroel,"  said  Izkhok  the  confectioner, 
excitedly,  touching  him  on  the  shoulder,  "let 
not  the  Torah  wait  for  you!" 

Then  Abrashkin,  a  tall  man,  whose  curly, 
grayish  beard  reached  his  waist,  and  whose 
trousers  were  tucked  into  his  long  boots,  flour- 
ished his  hands,  struck  the  prayer-book  impa- 
tiently, and  shouted,  as  if  he  were  commanding 
a  company  of  soldiers: 

"R-r-reb  Isroel,  don't  forget  it's  the  month 
of  Elul!  Str-r-rashno,  Yei  Bogu!"  (It's  ter- 
rible, by  God!) 

His  eyes  opened  wide,  mirroring  fright,  and 
his  shoulders  twitched  as  if  chills  shot  through 
his  frame.  Abrashkin,  who  had  been  a  soldier 
for  upwards  of  twenty-five  years,  and  whose 
language  was  a  mixture  of  Yiddish  and  Rus- 
sian, was  striving  with  all  his  might  to  atone 
[47] 


Contrite  Hearts 


for  having  missed  his  prayers,  broken  the  Sab- 
bath, and  eaten  Treifo1  in  his  younger  days, 
when,  as  he  said,  he  could  not  properly  serve 
the  Lord  because  he  had  to  serve  the  Tsar. 
He  now  seized  each  and  every  opportunity  to 
enrich  himself  with  Mizvohs2  which  were  to 
procure  for  him  a  worthy  seat  in  Heaven. 

"Let  some  one  else  read  the  Law  to-day," 
said  Isroel,  in  a  trembling  voice. 

"  Let  some  one  read  the  Law !  Make  haste ! " 
cried  Mordecai  Granat,  the  owner  of  the  syna- 
gogue, lifting  his  spectacles  to  his  forehead,  and 
staring  fixedly  at  the  sexton. 

The  sexton  trembled  perceptibly  under  Gra- 
nat's  stern  look,  and  began  to  turn  about  on  all 
sides.  Izkhok  the  confectioner,  who  had  been 
seeking  for  an  opportunity  to  read  the  Law, 
rushed  over  to  the  Scroll  and,  with  an  air  of 
superiority,  coughed,  to  clear  his  throat. 

Soon  a  descendant  of  Aaron  was  summoned 
to  the  Scroll,  then  a  Levite  was  called,  and 
finally  came  the  turn  for  a  plain  Israelite  to 
have  the  portion  of  the  Law  read  for  him. 

1  Food  forbidden  by  the  Mosaic  law. 
•  Good  deeds. 

[48] 


In  the  House  of  Prayer 


Each  one  touched  the  Scroll  with  the  fringes  of 
his  prayer-shawl,  kissed  the  fringes  and  said: 
"Blessed  art  Thou,  O  Lord,  our  God,  King  of 
the  universe,  who  hast  chosen  us  from  all  the 
nations  and  hast  given  us  Thy  Law.  Blessed 
art  Thou,  O  Lord,  Giver  of  the  Law."  After 
the  portion  had  been  read  each  blessed  the 
Lord  for  giving  to  Israel  the  Law  of  Truth, 
and  for  planting  eternal  life  within  His  chosen 
people. 

When  the  Scroll  was  lifted  the  entire  congre- 
gation rose  in  reverence,  saying:  "This  is  the 
Law  which  Moses  set  before  the  children  of 
Israel,  at  the  command  of  the  Lord;  it  is  a  tree 
of  life,  and  its  supporters  are  made  happy;  its 
ways  are  ways  of  bliss,  and  all  its  roads  lead 
to  peace.  Longevity  on  its  right,  on  its  left 
riches  and  honor." 

When  the  Scroll  was  rolled  together,  fastened, 
and  covered  with  the  velvet  mantle,  Isroel 
advanced  toward  the  desk  and  raised  his  hand. 

"Brethren,"  he  said,  amidst  profound  silence, 
"the  Lord  has  punished  me.  He  has  turned 
His  face  away  from  me.  Evidently  I  have 
deserved  it!" 

149] 


Contrite  Hearts 


"What  is  it?  What  is  it?"  was  asked  on  all 
sides. 

"Brethren!"  Isroel  cried,  heaving  a  dull  sigh. 
"A  wolf,  a  wicked  wolf,  broke  into  my  home. 
Like  a  whirlwind  he  broke  into  my  peaceful 
home,  and  carried  off  my  meek  little  lamb  — 
my  beautiful,  my  chaste,  innocent  child,  my 
Esther.  He  has  bewitched  her,  that  ac- 
cursed apostate,  Bobrovsky,  the  student,  may 
his  name  and  memory  be  wiped  off  the 
earth." 

Israel's  voice  broke  down.  Presently  he 
straightened  himself,  and  said  firmly: 

"  Brethren,  you  will  have  to  look  for  another 
'Messenger  of  the  Community'  for  Rosh  Hasho- 
noh  and  Yom  Kip  pur  —  I  cannot  officiate!" 

His  words  resounded  like  a  thunderbolt 
through  the  dimly  lighted  Beth  Hamidrash. 
The  congregation  stood  hushed  in  astonish- 
ment, perplexed,  dismayed. 

Isroel,  pale  and  bent,  slowly  stepped  down 
from  the  Bimoh,1  walked  over  to  his  seat  and, 
throwing  the  prayer-shawl  over  his  head,  turned 
his  face  to  the  wall  and  prayed. 

Platform  in  the  center  of  the  synagogue. 
[50] 


In  the  House  of  Prayer 


The  silence  lasted  but  a  little  while.  A  hun- 
dred voices  began  to  speak  at  once,  one  attempt- 
ing to  outcry  another.  Isroel  heard  behind  him 
a  storm  of  exclamations,  —  cries  of  astonish- 
ment mingled  with  disgust  and  oaths.  The 
noise  was  growing  ever  louder  and  louder. 
Disgraced,  he  stood  as  chained  to  his  place, 
resigned,  waiting  for  something  he  knew  not 
what.  He  dared  not  look  back  —  he  feared  to 
meet  the  eyes  of  the  community.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  the  people  behind  him  murmured  that 
he  was  profaning  the  house  of  prayer  by  his 
presence,  and  that  they  prepared  to  drag  him 
away  from  his  place  by  the  Ark.  Suddenly  all 
his  being  was  seized  with  faintness,  his  eyes 
grew  dim,  his  knees  shook,  while  the  agitated 
crowd  roared  on  without  end. 

"Such  a  pious  girl,  Ai,  Ai!"  said  the  confec- 
tioner, smacking  his  lips. 

"The  meshumed's  brass  buttons  enticed  her! 
Oh,  those  buttons,  those  buttons!"  roared 
Tankhum,  the  upholsterer. 

"Now  she  will  become  a  Goyel\"  squeaked 
the  confectioner. 

1 A  heathen. 
[51] 


Contrite  Hearts 


"What  could  Reb  Isroel  do?"  interposed 
some  one  timidly. 

"They  ought  to  be  lashed,  both  of  them- 
the  student  and  the  girl!  A  hundred  lashes 
apiece,  Yei  Bogu!"  cried  Abrashkin,  fiercely. 

"Yes,  a  man  must  take  care  of  his  daughters!" 
declared  Izkhok  the  confectioner. 

Isroel  could  bear  it  no  longer.  He  mustered 
courage  and  turned  around,  resolved  to  unbur- 
den his  wounded  heart.  He  wanted  to  tell 
them  that  talking  of  death  one  is  not  sure  of 
one's  life;  that  if  his  daughter  was  enticed  by 
an  apostate,  the  same  might  happen  with  any 
one  else's  daughter  in  the  community  —  that 
such  things  were  not  in  the  hands  of  man.  But 
when  he  looked  into  the  faces  of  the  people  and 
saw  that  some  eyes  were  turned  to  him  with 
compassion,  he  said  meekly,  beseechingly: 

"I  am  not  defending  her.  My  daughter  is 
no  more!  She  is  as  dead  to  me!  She  would 
not  obey  me!  She  would  not  receive  correc- 
tion! She  has  turned  away  from  the  Lord, 
and  the  Lord  will  surely  turn  away  from 
her!" 

Again  a  great  commotion  ensued.  Some 
[5*] 


In  the  House  of  Prayer 


argued,  some  pitied  the  father,  all  cursed  the 
apostate  and  the  girl.  Isroel  prayed. 

"Creator  of  the  universe!"  he  said,  "why 
did  not  the  earth  open  her  mouth  to  swallow 
me  ?  I  am  now  like  unto  a  broken  pot,  like  a 
worm  crushed  under  foot." 

Suddenly  Mordecai  Granat  bade  the  congre- 
gation to  be  silent. 

"Hush!"  he  commanded  in  a  ringing  voice. 
"Proceed  with  the  prayers!" 


[S3J 


CHAPTER  V 

AFTER  THE  STORM 

THE  news  of  Isroel  the  Cantor's  misfortune 
spread  rapidly  —  traveling  from  mouth  to 
mouth  —  from  the  Beth  Hamidrash  into  the 
homes  of  the  congregation;  from  the  homes  it 
was  borne  to  the  market-place,  and  thence  it 
streamed  forth  into  the  highways  and  byways 
of  Moghilyov.  Indeed,  the  news  had  traveled 
so  fast  that  when  Isroel,  leaning  on  Mendel's 
arm,  returned  home  from  the  house  of  prayer, 
scores  of  women  were  swarming  hither  and 
thither  on  Granat's  hill  in  quest  of  the  details 
of  the  calamity.  Some  of  the  women  entered 
the  house  and  beset  Beile  Reize  with  painful 
questions;  others,  less  bold  though  quite  as 
inquisitive,  crowded  the  hallway,  talking  ex- 
citedly, gesticulating  with  their  heads  and 
hands. 

Beile  Reize  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
[54] 


After  the  Storm 


wringing  her  hands,  and  her  sobs,  intermingled 
with  lamentations  uttered  in  a  sing-song,  were 
heard  far  out  in  the  street. 

"A  thunder  has  struck  us!  Woe  is  me,  woe 
is  me !  The  flower  has  been  crushed  ere  it  had 
time  to  bloom  —  woe  is  me,  woe  is  me !  The 
Uppermost  has  inflicted  a  terrible  curse  on 
our  heads!  A  thunder  has  struck  us!  Woe  is 
me!" 

Miriam  stood  behind  her,  trembling,  her  arm 
about  her  mother's  waist.  From  time  to  time 
she  exclaimed  in  an  imploring,  plaintive  tone: 

"Mame!    Mame!" 

Arke  and  Yoshke  were  praying  by  the  win- 
dow, fervently  reciting  aloud:  "And  He,  the 
Merciful  One,  forgiveth  iniquity." 

Zipke  planted  herself  upon  the  table,  her 
little  fist  in  her  mouth;  her  eyes,  wide  open 
with  fright,  wandering  from  the  floor  to  the 
ceiling,  and  then  over  the  walls  of  the  room. 
She  was  wondering  how  the  thunder  had  entered 
their  house;  she  was  looking  for  a  hole  in  the 
ceiling,  in  the  walls,  in  the  floor.  As  she 
glanced  at  Shleimke's  crib  she  noticed  that  the 
child  was  smiling,  and  suddenly,  while  the 
[55] 


Contrite  Hearts 


women  were  wrapping  their  shawls  about  their 
shoulders  and  shaking  their  heads  lachrymosely, 
Shleimke  began  to  laugh.  This  intensified  the 
misery  of  Beile  Reize,  and  some  of  the  women 
could  not  repress  their  tears  any  longer. 

Isroel  ascended  the  hill,  stepping  unsteadily, 
as  if  the  ground  were  trembling  under  his  feet. 
His  eyes  were  cast  down ;  his  tall  figure,  so  erect 
but  yesterday,  was  bent  —  broken  down  under 
the  weight  of  grief  and  shame.  As  he  was 
nearing  the  hallway,  the  women  moved  aside, 
jostling  one  another  and  talking  in  whispers. 

"Here  is  Reb  Isroel!  Here  comes  the  can- 
tor!" some  one  announced. 

Mendel,  walking  by  his  side,  was  pale.  His 
eyes,  reflecting  despair,  fatigued  and  red  from 
lack  of  sleep,  bulged  out,  and  the  dark  cir- 
cles about  them  accentuated  his  pallor,  and 
gave  his  face  a  sickly,  somewhat  angry  ex- 
pression. 

On  reaching  the  hallway  he  turned  to  the 
women  and  said  nervously: 

"What  have  you  not  seen  here?  You  had 
better  go  home.  We'll  send  for  you  when  we 
need  you.  Go!" 

[561 


After  the  Storm 


Like  a  flock  of  geese,  suddenly  driven  away, 
the  women  started  off  hastily,  noisily,  excitedly, 
hurling  abuse,  and  cursing  as  they  retreated. 

"Look  at  them!"  cried  a  cock-eyed,  red- 
haired  woman,  in  a  Turkish  shawl.  "See  how 
proud  they  are!  Ai,  Ai,  Ai!  A  baptized 
daughter.  Who  is  equal  to  them  ?  Not  every- 
body can  have  one!" 

She  spat  aside  noisily  and  hurried  down  the 
hill,  followed  by  several  women. 

"I've  always  thought  that  no  good  would 
come  of  her,"  declared  triumphantly  a  tall, 
thick-lipped,  slender  woman,  whose  nose  bore 
close  resemblance  to  a  pelican's  bill.  "When- 
ever I  saw  her  with  a  pack  of  books  under  her 
arm  I  said  to  my  Shmuel,  may  he  live  long, 
'There  grows  a  goye.'  As  true  as  I  am  a 
Jewess!" 

"It  is  a  sin  to  speak  this  way.  God  be  with 
you!  It  is  a  matter  of  Heaven,  Khaye,"  inter- 
posed an  old  woman,  lifting  her  lidless  eyes, 
and  smacking  her  wrinkled  lips,  as  she  added 
with  enthusiasm  and  awe,  as  though  she  beheld 
at  this  minute  angels  ascending  heavenward: 
"Do  you  remember  how  she  used  to  pray  in 
[57] 


Contrite  Hearts 


shule  ?  Each  word  was  like  sugar.  Like  — 
like  the  precious  gems  —  they  deserved  to  be 
kissed  one  by  one." 

"Nu,  Shoshe,  here  you  see,  here  you  see. 
What  is  the  good  of  it  now?  Oh,  may  the 
Uppermost  save  all  Jewish  daughters  from  such 
an  end  as  this!  From  the  Talmud  to  baptism! 
Ai,  Ai,  Ai!" 

Isroel  and  Mendel  were  forced  to  wait  for 
some  time  at  the  door,  for  the  women,  in  their 
attempt  to  flock  out  all  at  once,  blocked  the 
doorway. 

Mendel,  exasperated,  raised  his  clenched  fist 
and  cried,  in  a  tone  quivering  with  anger: 

"Be  still,  I  say!  Why  do  you  throw  salt  on 
our  wounds  ?  Go  to  your  homes  and  attend  to 
your  owrn  affairs!" 

Isroel  seized  him  by  the  arm. 

"Compose  yourself/'  he  said,  waving  his 
hand.  "Let  them  speak!  You  cannot  close 
the  world's  mouth.  Let  them  speak!  Perhaps 
they  are  right!  Let  them  say  whatever  they 
please." 

Mendel  shrugged  his  shoulders.     He  could 
not  recognize  his  brother-in-law,  who,  though 
[58] 


After  the  Storm 


always  humble  in  spirit,  had  never  bowed  his 
head  to  man,  except  in  recognition  of  one's 
learning  and  kindness  of  heart. 

In  the  meantime  the  throng,  still  noisy  and 
agitated,  was  dispersing  in  different  directions. 
Several  women  paused  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
and  remained  there  for  hours  —  talking,  whis- 
pering, cursing,  pitying. 

When  Isroel  entered  the  house  he  caught 
Beile  Reize's  face  quivering.  She  quickly  wiped 
her  eyes  and  hastened  into  the  bedroom,  where 
she  drew  one  of  her  husband's  old  boots  from 
under  the  bed  and,  adjusting  it  over  the  chimney 
of  the  samovar,  began  to  blow  up  the  coals  with 
it.  A  dense  smoke  filled  the  room. 

"I'll  give  you  tea  directly,  Isroel,"  she  said, 
again  wiping  her  eyes.  "The  black  year  knows 
what  has  become  of  the  samovar  this  morning. 
The  smoke  goes  right  into  my  eyes." 

"Eh,  who  wants  tea?  Drink,  drink,  Beile; 
I'll  drink  later,"  he  said,  in  a  faint  voice,  hang- 
ing his  prayer-shawl  on  the  nail,  beside  the 
portrait  of  Rabbi  Izkhok  Elkhonon. 

"Mendel,  sit  down  by  the  table  —  go,  eat 
something,  and  lie  down  to  rest  yourself  —  you 
[59] 


Contrite  Hearts 


look  like  a  corpse,"  said  Beile  Reize  after  a 
while. 

"I  am  not  hungry,"  replied  Mendel.  "I'll 
go  out  a  little;  my  head  is  aching." 

Soon  Yoshke,  Arke,  and  Zipke  seated  them- 
selves by  the  table.  Beile  Reize  placed  before 
them  a  bowlful  of  steaming  boiled  potatoes  and 
a  glass  of  herring-sauce.  Each  of  the  children 
in  turn  dipped  the  potatoes  in  the  glass,  and 
occasionally  sipped  some  of  the  sauce. 

Miriam  now  stood  in  the  corner,  her  lips 
moving,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  open  pages  of 
her  mother's  prayer-book. 

The  hours  dragged  slowly.  All  was  quiet  in 
the  little  house.  Isroel  sat  at  the  end  of  the 
table,  supporting  his  chin  with  his  hands.  A 
small  book  lay  before  him,  but  his  eyes  were 
closed,  and  the  wrinkles  on  his  forehead  and 
between  his  eyebrows  showed  that  he  was 
absorbed  in  pensive  thoughts. 

"Isroel,"  Beile  Reize  called  him  suddenly. 
He  gave  a  start  and  opened  his  eyes. 

"Isroel,  what  holiday  is  to-day  that  the  chil- 
dren have  not  come  so  late?  It  is  past  ten 
o'clock!" 

[60] 


After  the  Storm 


Isroel  merely  shook  his  head  in  reply;  then, 
after  a  pause,  he  added,  waving  his  hand: 

"Eh,  you  are  a  woman!" 

Beile  Reize  stared  at  him,  perplexed.  She 
knew  that  his  remark  meant  that  she  failed  to 
understand  something  of  great  importance. 

Isroel  waited  awhile,  and  said  in  an  under- 
tone, gravely: 

"Don't  you  understand,  Beile?  The  parents 
don't  want  to  send  their  children  to  a  teacher 
who  was  unable  to  take  care  of  his  own  child! 
Do  you  blame  them  ?  Would  you  be  different  ?  " 

"But,  Isroel,  the  Uppermost  knows—  "  she 
began,  but  her  lips  quivered,  all  her  frame  shook 
with  a  convulsive  shudder,  her  heart  shrank 
with  acute  pain.  Her  eyes  saw  nothing. 

"A  thunder  has  struck  us!  A  thunder  has 
struck  us!"  she  sobbed. 

"Don't  take  it  to  heart,  Beile.  The  Upper- 
most is  merciful.  He  will  not  suffer  us  to  fall," 
said  Isroel,  seating  himself  beside  his  wife. 
"Where  is  it  written  that  I  must  be  a  teacher, 
or  a  cantor,  or  a  shokhet?  When  it  comes  to 
the  worst,  I  can  go  and  hire  myself  out  as  a 
hewer  of  wood  or  a  carrier  of  water.  My  shoul- 
[61] 


Contrite  Hearts 


ders,  thank  God,  are  broad,  and  my  hands  are 
strong.  Before  Him  all  are  equal  —  before  the 
great  Judge  in  heaven  —  if  the  hearts  are  but 
pure,  and  the  hands  not  stained  with  evil 
deeds!" 

Beile  Reize  covered  her  face  with  her  hands, 
and  as  Isroel  kept  speaking,  she  felt  as  if  a  new 
psalm  was  flowing  forth  from  his  lips,  a  psalm 
for  aching  hearts,  a  new  hymn  of  courage,  of 
faith,  of  love,  of  hope.  And  somehow  this 
psalm  seemed  nearer  to  her  than  any  of  King 
David's;  it  spoke  to  her  a  language  she  under- 
stood, and  a  powerful  wave  of  refreshing  vigor 
stirred  in  her  heart. 

Broad  strips  of  sunshine  were  bursting  into 
the  room  through  the  two  windows  which  faced 
the  river.  When  Beile  Reize  opened  her  eyes 
it  appeared  to  her  as  if  her  husband's  words 
had  diffused  the  cheerful  brightness  in  the 
house,  and  she  felt  no  longer  so  weary  and 
oppressed  —  the  sunshine  seemed  to  have  en- 
tered her  heart. 

At  noon  she  said  to  Isroel: 

"Sit  down  by  the  table  —  eat  something." 

"Eat,  eat,  Beile,"  he  replied;  "I'll  eat  later." 
[62] 


After  the  Storm 


Beile  Reize  understood  that  he  was  fasting. 
But  as  she,  too,  was  fasting,  she  did  not  urge 
him  to  eat. 

"Israel,  what  are  you  thinking  about?"  she 
asked,  a  little  later. 

"I  am  thinking,"  he  said  slowly,  sadly,  "I 
am  thinking  —  what  will  they  do  now?" 

"Who?"  she  queried  eagerly. 

"They.  I  mean  the  congregation.  Who 
will  say  the  First  Selichoth1  for  them?  Who  will 
pray  for  them  on  Rosh  Hashonoh  and  Yom 
Kippur?" 

She  opened  her  eyes  wide,  and  stared  at  him 
with  astonishment. 

"Don't  you  understand  that  I  will  not  do  it? 
They  would  not  allow  me  to  pray  as  Messenger 
of  the  Community.  And  even  if  they  would, 
do  you  think  I  would  pray  for  them?  A  man 
must  not  trifle  with  such  matters!  Messenger 
of  the  Community!  Is  it  a  trifle?" 

"But  we  must  live,  God  be  with  you,"  cried 
Beile  Reize.  "If  you  do  not  officiate,  what 
shall  we  live  on  after  the  holidays?" 

1  The  prayers  for  forgiveness  offered  on  the  Sunday  morning 
preceding  the  Jewish  New  Year. 

[63] 


Contrite  Hearts 


"Beile  Reize,  I  don't  understand  —  what  has 
befallen  you?  Would  you  have  me  appear 
before  the  Almighty  and  pray  for  the  community 
just  because  we  need  the  hundred  rubles? 
True,  God  knows,  I  have  not  changed  since 
last  year,  but  I  cannot  —  my  heart  would  burst. 
Perhaps  we  have  sinned.  Why  should  the  com- 
munity suffer  because  of  us?  If,  God  forbid, 
some  misfortune  should  befall  any  one  of  them 
—  if  some  one  should  die  a  premature  death  — 
my  heart  would  break.  I  would  feel  as  if  I  were 
to  blame.  I  would  feel  that  my  prayers  were 
not  heeded." 

Beile  Reize  was  sobbing,  wiping  her  eyes 
with  her  apron,  and  rocking  the  crib  with  the 
other  hand. 

"Lose  no  heart,  God  will  not  forsake  us; 
He  is  merciful,"  Isroel  consoled  her  in  a  soft 
voice.  "He  will  help  us;  if  not  for  ourselves, 
for  the  sake  of  our  little  ones.  Despair  not." 

Suddenly  Arke  rushed  into  the  house,  clap- 
ping his  hands  and  shouting: 

"Grandfather  is  coming!  Grandfather  is 
here!" 

[64] 


CHAPTER  VI 

NAPHTOLI  THE  WATCHMAKER 

NAPHTOLI  the  watchmaker,  Beile  Reize's 
father,  appeared  on  the  threshold.  He  was 
short,  thin,  white-haired,  with  a  small  white 
beard,  and  white  mustaches  which  had  turned 
yellow  from  constant  use  of  snuff-tobacco.  His 
face,  red  and  rough,  was  densely  covered  with 
wrinkles.  His  eyes  were  small,  brisk,  cunning; 
and  even  in  moments  of  repose  it  was  hard  to 
discern  by  the  features  of  his  face  whether  he 
was  laughing  or  crying. 

"Peace  be  unto  you!"  he  said,  advancing  to 
Isroel,  who  rose  to  meet  him.  Naphtoli  had 
on  a  greenish  coat  and  a  brown  cap.  He  carried 
a  satchel  under  his  arm.  Yoshke  and  Zipke 
ran  after  him,  dragging  his  heavy  valise  over 
the  ground. 

Beile  Reize  walked  over  to  her  father  and, 
leaning  her  head  on  his  breast,  wept. 
[65! 


Contrite  Hearts 


"Tate,  if  you  only  knew,"  she  uttered,  a 
wail  of  despair  breaking  forth  from  her  heart. 

"I  know,  my  daughter,  I  know  everything. 
I've  heard  it  in  the  market-place." 

"Beile  Reize,"  interposed  Isroel,  half  beg- 
ging, half  commanding,  "how  many  times  must 
I  ask  you  not  to  weep  for  her  ?  She  is  no  more 
— no  more.  Like  last  year's  snow.  Do  you 
hear?" 

Naphtoli  shook  his  head  and,  passing  his 
hand  over  his  mustaches,  said  pensively: 

"Isroel  is  right,  my  daughter  —  the  Lord  has 
given,  and  the  Lord  has  taken  away.  What  is 
the  use  of  crying?  Is  it  your  fault?  Can  you 
help  it?  The  fate  of  a  human  being  is  not  in 
our  hands,  my  child.  Take  even  a  watch,  or 
a  clock,  for  instance,  —  it  may  have  the  finest 
Swiss  movement.  Each  little  wheel,  the  bal- 
ance, and  the  mainspring  may  all  be  perfect, 
and  yet  sometimes  it  will  not  work  right.  Try 
as  hard  as  you  will  —  even  though  you  lie  down 
and  die  trying  to  fix  it  —  it  will  not  work,  and 
that's  all!  Now,  my  daughter" — Naphtoli 
straightened  himself,  as  if  about  to  say  some- 
thing new,  something  important  and  convincing, 
[66] 


Naphtoli  the  Watchmaker 


—  "now,"  he  went  on  in  a  sing-song,  like  one 
emerging  victorious  from  a  Talmudic  labyrinth, 
"if  this  is  true  of  a  clock,  how  much  truer  is  it 
of  a  human  being?" 

The  old  man,  proud  of  his  profession,  was 
wont  to  exploit  it  in  order  to  illustrate  his  point 
of  view,  although  his  comparisons  were  occa- 
sionally rather  vague  and  far-fetched. 

"Everything  depends  upon  the  will  of  the 
Uppermost!  Everything!"  he  declared  em- 
phatically, with  a  ring  of  overpowering  pathos 
in  his  voice,  and  placing  his  satchel  on  the 
bench,  began  to  unpack  it  hurriedly,  trying  thus 
to  disguise  his  emotion. 

"Sit  down,  rest  yourself  first.  You  must  be 
tired  from  the  journey,"  said  Isroel.  "Take 
off  your  coat,  and  sit  down." 

Naphtoli  immediately  removed  his  coat, 
seated  himself,  and  asked: 

"Where  is  Mendel?" 

"He  must  be  in  the  Beth  Hamidrash,  praying 
Minkho,1"  replied  Beile  Reize;  "he'll  come 
home  soon." 

"And  Miriam?" 

1  Afternoon  prayer. 
[67] 


Contrite  Hearts 


"I  sent  her  after  something  —  after  some 
meal  for  the  cow." 

Suddenly  Naphtoli  rose  from  the  tabouret, 
stroked  his  beard,  and  nodded  his  head,  as  if 
arguing  with  himself.  Then  he  motioned  to 
the  boys  who  were  tugging  away  at  his  valise. 

"Come  here,  Yosele,  open  it  —  Arele,  help 
him,"  he  said;  "take  out  everything." 

The  boys  began  to  bustle  about,  and,  after 
considerable  trouble,  succeeded  in  unfastening 
the  ropes.  The  cantor  and  his  wife  looked  on 
in  silence,  glancing  now  at  Naphtoli,  now  at  his 
valise. 

"That  suit  of  clothes  on  top  there,"  began 
the  old  man,  in  a  quivering  voice,  attempting 
to  smile,  "you  see,  it's  a  fine  suit,  eh?  Yosele, 
wait,  hold  it  up,  that's  the  way!  I  had  it  made 
for  Mendel.  Imported  goods;  it  expands  and 
contracts  like  rubber.  You  can't  get  such  stuff 
here.  It  comes  from  England.  That  other 
suit  is  for  you,  Isroel.  There's  a  shawl  for  you, 
Beile.  There  are  'fringes'  there  for  the  boys. 
There  are  some  things  there  for  Miriam  and 
Zipke."  He  lowered  his  voice,  and  added: 
"The  rest  was  all  for  her.  I  thought,  I'll  come 
[68] 


Naphtoli  the  Watchmaker 


for  the  holidays.  And  right  after  Succoth,1  I 
thought  we  would  make  the  wedding."  His 
head  sank  on  his  breast,  and  the  network  of 
wrinkles  on  his  face  began  to  quiver  rapidly, 
thus  closing  his  eyes. 

Beile  Reize  burst  into  sobs: 

"My  Esther  has  become  a  bride.  Woe  is 
me!  Esther  has  become  a  bride!" 

Isroel  sat  silently,  his  head  bowed  down,  tears 
glistening  in  his  eyes.  The  children  were 
emptying  the  valise,  and  as  they  drew  forth  the 
presents,  they  kept  exclaiming: 

"Ah!    Look!    Tate!     Mame!    Look!" 

"When  God  punishes  a  man,  He  does  it 
from  a  full  hand;  as  the  peasant  says:  'When 
misfortune  comes,  open  the  gates,'  said  Naph- 
toli, wiping  his  mustaches,  and,  turning  to 
Isroel,  added: 

"I  want  your  advice  on  a  certain  important 
matter.  We  must  decide  it  to-day,  to-morrow. 
It  must  not  be  delayed." 

Isroel  regarded  him  steadfastly,  and  waited 
a  few  seconds.  Then  he  pointed  to  the  door, 
and  said: 

1  The  Feast  of  Tabernacles. 


Contrite  Hearts 


"Children,  go  out  and  play  in  the  yard." 

Naphtoli  raised  his  head  suddenly,  and  asked 
almost  in  a  whisper: 

"Isroel,  what  do  you  think  of  America?" 

"America?"  exclaimed  the  cantor  and  his 
wife.  "America!" 

"I  have  learned  in  A that  Mendel  will 

have  to  serve  in  the  army,"  began  Naphtoli. 

"What  do  you  say?  How  is  that?"  they 
interrupted  him,  with  fright.  "And  his  'First 
Privilege'?" 

Naphtoli  soon  explained  to  them  that  because 
so  many  young  men  had  left  for  America,  even 
only  sons,  having  'First  Privilege,'  will  have  to 
serve  this  year,  to  make  up  the  required  number 
of  recruits. 

"What  would  become  of  Mendel  in  the  army? 
Such  a  tender,  weak  young  man.  He  has  no 
trade  in  his  hands.  He  would  be  lost  there. 
For  whom,  I  ask,  for  whom  should  he  waste 
his  health,  his  youth,  the  best  years  of  his  life  ? 
For  whom?" 

The  old  man  looked  around,  as  if  to  make 
sure  that  no  strangers  overheard  him,  and  he 
added  in  a  whisper,  bitterly: 
[7o] 


Naphtoli  the  Watchmaker 


"My  blood  boils  within  me.  As  I  travel 
from  town  to  town,  from  village  to  village,  I 
see  and  hear  what  is  going  on  about  us.  My 
eyes  are  open.  And  what  I  see  makes  me 
shudder.  My  heart  weeps  within  me.  That 
they  hate  us  on  each  and  every  step,  that  is 
not  new.  Are  we  not  the  '  Chosen  people '  ?  — 
the  people  chosen  to  suffer  in  exile  ?  Let  them 
hate  us.  Do  we  ask  them  to  love  us,  to  respect 
us?  Leave  us  alone,  to  live  and  die  in  peace. 
But  they  trample  us  under  foot  as  if  we  were 
worms;  they  block  all  our  ways;  they  rob  us 
of  every  means  of  subsistence;  they  shed  our 
blood.  And  yet,  go  and  serve  in  the  army,  be 
faithful  to  them.  You  understand  —  they  take 
out  the  mainspring,  they  break  the  wheels  one 
by  one,  and  yet  they  want  the  watch  to  go  and 
keep  time  correctly." 

He  paused  a  while,  then  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders, and  continued,  his  small  eyes  blinking 
strangely: 

"Do  you  understand  now  why  I  asked  you 

what  you  think  of  America?    Since  last  week 

'America'  is  forever  whirling  about  in  my  mind. 

When   I   work   I   think  of  America.     I   even 

[7'] 


Contrite  Hearts 


dreamt  of  it  last  night.  And  sometimes  I  lie 
awake  and  think, — and  a  shudder  goes  through 
me,  as  true  as  I  am  a  Jew,  —  my  head  seems  to 
be  bursting  to  a  thousand  pieces  when  I  think 
of  Mendel  going  so  far  away,  to  the  other  end 
of  the  world,  alone,  in  a  strange  land." 

They  spoke  for  a  long  time  of  the  New  World. 
Then  they  offered  the  afternoon  prayers,  and 
again  they  discussed  America.  Beile  Reize  was 
filled  with  terror  at  the  mere  mention  of  the 
word. 

"Perhaps  there  are  no  houses  of  prayer  there 
at  all,"  she  cried  several  times.  "What  will 
Mendel  do  there?" 

"Beile  Reize,  the  less  one  speaks,  the  less 
nonsense  one  is  sure  to  say,"  Isroel  interrupted 
her. 

The  cantor  was  of  the  opinion  that  America 
was  the  lesser  of  the  two  evils,  and  that,  serv- 
ing in  the  army,  Mendel  might  as  well  bid 
farewell  to  his  hopes  of  becoming  Rabbi  in 
Russia. 

"So  many  Jews  have  left  Russia,"  he  said, 
"and  have  settled  in  America.  'Jewish'  Jews 
will  remain  Jews  even  if  they  go  through  fire 
[7*] 


Naphtoli  the  Watchmaker 


and  water.  Where  the  other  Jews  are,  there 
will  also  Mendel  be,  and  God  will  help  him. 
America!  You  play  with  America,  eh?  There 
every  man  is  free,  and  even  our  Jews  have  a 
voice  in  government  affairs.  I  have  read  not 
long  ago  that  some  of  the  highest  offices  are 
held  there  by  Jews.  Four  hundred  years  ago, 
when  the  Jews  were  driven  out  from  Spain,  — 
may  her  name  and  memory  be  wiped  off,  —  just 
then  when  the  Jews  had  no  place  whither  to  go, 
the  New  World  was  discovered.  It  is  a  matter 
of  Heaven.  We  see  in  this  the  hand  of  the 
Uppermost,  who  creates  the  remedy  before  the 
disease.  It  was  evidently  predestined  that 
America  shall  some  day  become  a  refuge  for 
the  sons  of  Israel.  Perhaps  it  is  Mendel's  luck 

that  A is  short  of  recruits  this  year." 

******* 

In  the  evening  the  choristers  came,  as  usual 
during  the  month  of  Elul,  to  rehearse  the 
prayers  for  the  Awful  Days.  Only  the  tenors 
and  the  basso  came ;  the  altos  and  the  sopranos, 
who  had  been  selected  from  among  IsroePs 
pupils,  were  not  there. 

"Good  evening!"  they  said,  entering. 
[73] 


Contrite  Hearts 


"Good  evening!  Good  evening!"  replied 
Isroel,  in  a  low  voice.  "Children,"  he  said  a 
little  later,  addressing  the  singers  who  stood 
near  the  doorway,  feeling  uneasily,  "Children, 
I  will  not  officiate  this  year."  His  words 
seemed  to  choke  him.  "Go  over  to  Reb  Mor- 
decai  Granat,  across  the  yard,  he  is  the  gabbai1 
of  the  synagogue.  Perhaps  the  other  cantor 
may  want  you  to  help  him.  The  time  is  too 
short  to  train  a  new  chorus." 

The  *  helpers'  knew  why  Isroel  would  not 
officiate,  so  they  shook  their  heads,  not  finding 
anything  adequate  to  say.  Finally  the  basso 
mustered  up  courage  and,  scratching  the  back 
of  his  head,  muttered: 

"They'll  have  to  wait  long  before  they'll  get 
a  cantor  like  you,  Reb  Isroel." 

"It  is  all  the  same  before  the  Lord  who  prays, 
if  it  comes  but  out  of  the  depth  of  the  heart," 
replied  Isroel. 

A  tall,  round-shouldered,  long-nosed  tenor 
cleared  his  throat  twice  and  said: 

"There  are  cantors  and  cantors." 

Feeling  embarrassed  and  awkward,  the  sing- 

1  President. 
[74] 


Naphtoli  the  Watchmaker 


ers  waited  awhile,  then,  as  one  man,  they  turned 
abruptly,  saying: 

"Well,  have  a  good  night  —  and  a  good 
year!"  And  they  marched  out  hurriedly. 

When  Naphtoli  learned  that  the  calamity 
which  invaded  his  daughter's  house  actually 
tore  the  ground  from  under  their  feet,  that  it 
left  them  helpless,  drifting  in  the  open  sea,  as  it 
were,  that  Israel's  income  was  suddenly  cut  off 
on  all  sides,  he  rose  from  his  seat,  walked  over 
to  Isroel  and,  lifting  his  hand  to  his  shoulder, 
cried  with  emotion: 

"Nu,  don't  worry,  Isroel,  God  is  merciful! 
We  shall  not  starve,  with  the  help  of  God!" 

Then  he  turned  to  Yoshke  and  exclaimed 
cheerfully: 

"  Get  a  bottle  and  bring  us  ten  kopecks'  worth 
of  brandy.  How  is  it  written  there  —  'Wine 
gladdens  the  heart  of  man'?  Go,  my  child, 
quick." 

"We  have  some  passover  brandy,  I'll  fetch  it 
for  you,"  said  Beile  Reize. 

All  sat  down  by  the  table  and,  wishing  one 
another  a  'good  and  peaceful  life,'  each  drank 
a  small  glass  of  brandy.  It  was  then,  at  about 
[751 


Contrite  Hearts 


eight  o'clock,  that  Isroel  and  his  wife  broke 
their  fast. 

After  supper  Naphtoli  unfastened  the  bosom 
of  his  heavy  vest  and,  drawing  forth  from  a 
secret  pocket  something  wrapped  in  a  red  hand- 
kerchief, put  it  on  the  table  before  Isroel. 

"Here,  Isroel,"  he  said,  uhere  are  five  hun- 
dred rubles  which  I  have  saved  for  several  years. 
Take  one  half  for  you,  and  give  the  other  half 
to  Mendel.  He  will  need  it  soon." 

Isroel  grasped  the  old  man's  hand  and  gazed 
at  him  for  some  time  with  astonishment. 

"Reb  Naphtoli,"  he  uttered,  "who  needs 
money?  God  be  with  you!  You  are  an  old 
man,  it  is  time  for  you  to  rest,  to  reap  the  fruit 
of  your  toil.  You  will  need  all  you  have  for 
yourself." 

"Don't  be  a  child,"  cried  Naphtoli.  "Take 
it,  or  I  will  be  angry.  I'll  rest  there  —  in  the 
other  world.  As  long  as  Naphtoli  the  watch- 
maker's hands  move,  as  long  as  his  eyes  see, 
he  can  earn  his  bread  and  salt.  Thank  God, 
I  have  a  trade  in  my  hands.  Would  that  my 
son  were  so  safe.  Yes,  children,  there  was  a 
time  when  everybody  laughed  at  me.  All  my 
[761 


Naphtoli  the  Watchmaker 


family  turned  away  from  me  when  I  resolved  to 
become  a  watchmaker.  They  feared  that  I 
would  disgrace  them  by  becoming  a  workman. 
Just  think  of  it!  Naphtoli,  Reb  Avremele's  son, 
a  workman !  Oh,  the  vanity,  the  vanity  of  it  all ! 
Later  I  laughed  at  them.  That  is,  I  did  not 
laugh  at  them,  I  pitied  them,  and  I  often  helped 
them  when  they  could  not  help  themselves. 
Then  they  did  not  laugh  at  me  any  longer." 
Before  going  to  sleep  Naphtoli  said  to  his  son : 
"Mendel,  I  don't  know  what  sort  of  a  land 
America  is,  what  kind  of  people  live  there.  I 
don't  know  their  laws,  their  customs.  But  one 
thing  I  want  to  tell  you.  Be  a  man  — an 
honest  man.  And  don't  be  ashamed  to  work; 
work  never  disgraces  a  man.  In  the  beginning 
it  is  hard  everywhere.  Milk  and  honey  do  not 
flow  in  the  streets,  and  loaves  of  bread  do  not 
grow  on  trees.  Remember,  my  son,  be  a  man, 
even  if  you  have  to  carry  stones  and  chop  wood. 
And  God  will  help  you.  We'll  hear  good  news, 
and  perhaps,  if  God  will  grant  us  years,  we 
may  meet  yet." 


177] 


CHAPTER  VH 

THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

Two  weeks  went  by,  and  yet  no  one  came  to 
see  either  the  cantor  or  his  wife.  Nor  did  Isroel 
go  to  Granat's  synagogue  on  Rosh  Hashonoh. 
He  would  have  offered  the  prayers  at  home, 
were  it  not  for  the  Blowing  of  the  Shofar  and 
the  Reading  of  the  Law.  But  as  he  dared  not 
miss  these,  he  went  together  with  his  wife,  and 
Naphtoli  and  Mendel  to  the  new  'Thilim'  Beth 
Hamidrash,  near  their  house.  There  they  stood 
by  the  door,  speaking  to  no  one,  reciting  the 
prayers  fervently,  swaying  their  bodies  back  and 
forth;  their  hearts  and  minds  fixed  upon  each 
and  every  word  they  uttered.  And  as  they 
prayed  they  sobbed  and  moaned,  and  the  tears 
kept  rolling  freely  down  their  faces. 

On  the  morning  preceding  the  Day  of  Atone- 
ment, Beile  Reize  was  busy  with  preparations 
for  he  afternoon  meal.  While  she  was  knead- 
[78] 


The  Day  of  Atonement 


ing  and  rolling  the  dough  for  three-cornered 
"kreplach,"  Miriam  was  chopping  boiled  meat 
with  which  to  fill  them.  The  stuffed  fish,  all 
ready  to  be  served,  was  on  the  table  in  a  large 
copper  pan,  emitting  a  delicious  odor.  Beile 
Reize  saw  in  everything  signs  of  the  greatness 
of  the  coming  day.  In  the  very  taste  and  color 
and  odor  of  the  fish  she  clearly  perceived  the 
hand  of  the  Uppermost.  Somehow  she  felt  that 
the  same  fish,  if  cooked  to  be  eaten  on  an  ordi- 
nary week-day,  would  have  had  another  taste, 
another  appearance,  another  odor.  She  be- 
lieved that  because  of  the  import  of  the  occasion 
a  wonder  was  wrought. 

Rolling  the  dough  mechanically,  she  was  so 
absorbed  by  this  thought  that  she  heard  nothing, 
though  the  door  opened  noisily  and  a  man 
walked  in. 

Miriam  tugged  her  by  the  sleeve  and  called 
softly: 

"Mame!" 

Beile  Reize  did  not  stir  for  a  few  moments; 

then  she  swung  the  dough  over  the  rolling-pin 

and  turned  towards  the  bedroom  to  spread  it 

upon  a  pillow  in  order  to  dry  it.     Suddenly  she 

[79] 


Contrite  Hearts 


stopped   short,    and   the   rolling-pin   with   the 

dough  fell  from  her  hands  to  the  ground. 
"Reb  Isser,"  she  gasped.     "You?" 
"You  will  become  rich,"  she  said,  when  she 

came  to  herself.     "I  did  not  recognize  you  at 

first.     May  I  have  such  a  good  year." 
Isser,    the    sexton    of    Granat's    synagogue, 

looked  somewhat  nervous;  he  kept  buttoning 

and    unbuttoning    his    long    coat,    and    then, 

stroking  his  short,  thin,  grayish  beard,  he  asked 

in  a  low  voice: 

"Where  is  Reb  Isroel?    I  would  like  to  see 

him." 

"He  will  come  soon.     Be  seated,  Reb  Isser," 

she  said,  rubbing  her  hands,  bustling  about  the 

room  excitedly. 

"Thank  you,  I  can  stand." 

"Sit  down,  at  the  same  expense." 

"It's  Erev  Yom  Kippur,  — who  has  time  to 

sit?    Still,  I'll  wait  a  while,"  and  saying  this 

he  sat  down  on  a  tabouret,  in  a  corner,  near  the 

door. 

"I  would  swear  Isroel  is  coming  already," 

said  Beile  Reize  after  a  while,  as  she  looked  out 

of  the  window. 

[80] 


The  Day  of  Atonement 


Presently  Isroel  appeared  in  the  doorway, 
carrying  several  huge  candles  under  his  arm. 

On  noticing  the  sexton  he  nodded  his  head 
silently,  walked  past  him  and  placed  the  candles 
on  the  table.  The  sexton,  pale-faced,  still 
stroking  his  beard  with  trembling  fingers,  gazed 
at  the  cantor  timidly,  and  finally,  making  an 
effort  to  control  himself,  coughed,  to  clear  his 
throat. 

"Reb  Isroel,"  he  began,  "I  have  come  here 
—  I  have  come  to  beg  your  forgiveness,"  he 
blurted  out,  "your  forgiveness,"  and  turning  to 
Beile  Reize,  "and  yours,  too.  I  know  your 
misfortune  was  a  matter  of  Heaven.  May  God 
punish  me  if  I  ever  meant  to  wrong  you!"  He 
shook  his  head  mournfully.  "We  are  all  but 
flesh  and  blood.  Nu,  I  wish  you  a  good  'seal' 
for  the  new  year." 

"I  wish  you  the  same,"  responded  Beile 
Reize.  "  Luck,  blessings  — 

"I  wish  you  the  same,  Reb  Isser,"  said  the 
cantor,  extending  his  hand  to  the  sexton,  who 
seized  it  and  shook  it  with  reverence. 

"Eh,"  muttered  Isser,  contracting  his  eye- 
brows, "without  you  the  praying  was  not  smooth 
[81]  ' 


Contrite  Hearts 


a.t  all.  The  cantor  was  not  a  cantor,  and  the 
praying  was  not  your  praying.  How  does  it 
come  to  your  'Unsane  Tokej'?" 

No  sooner  had  the  sexton  left  the  house  than 
Mordecai  Granat  entered.  He  wore  his  holiday 
clothes,  and  his  face  was  free  from  its  usual 
sternness. 

"Peace  be  with  you,  Reb  Isroel." 

"Peace  be  with  you,  Reb  Mordecai." 

They  shook  hands  as  they  greeted  each  other. 
Then  Mordecai  said: 

"Reb  Isroel,  forgive  me,  —  I  have  wronged 
you."  His  tone,  always  haughty  and  com- 
manding, was  mild,  subdued,  almost  pleading. 

"You  have  not  wronged  me  at  all,"  replied 
Isroel,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  "you  have  not 
wronged  me." 

"Nu,  what  was,  was.  The  past  is  dead. 
Don't  let  me  ask  you  long,  —  come  to  us  for 
'KolNidrei';do  not  fail." 

Isroel  promised  to  come.  He  bore  him  no 
ill-will,  he  felt  that  Mordecai  had  erred  in  cen- 
suring him  for  the  fault  of  his  daughter;  and 
Isroel  was  glad  now,  for  Mordecai's  sake,  that 
he  was  repenting  his  error. 
[82] 


The  Day  of  Atonement 


During  the  forenoon  the  entire  congregation 
came  one  by  one  to  beg  the  cantor  to  forgive 
them  for  having  ill-treated  him  in  deed,  word, 
or  thought. 

"A  Jewish  heart  is  a  Jewish  heart  after  all," 
cried  Beile  Reize,  as  tears  of  joy  leaped  to  her 
eyes. 

Naphtoli  regarded  the  matter  differently. 

"First  they  take  the  soul  out,"  he  said,  bit- 
terly, "and  then  they  ask  for  forgiveness.  'I 
want  neither  your  sting  nor  your  honey.'  Don't 
you  understand  why  they  came  to-day?  It  is 
written  that  while  Yom  Kippur  will  wipe  off 
their  sins  against  the  Lord,  it  will  not  clear  them 
of  the  wrongs  committed  by  man  against  his 
fellow-man.  They  begged  your  forgiveness  to 
save  themselves." 

"Be  it  as  it  may,  they  repent  nevertheless, 
and  that  is  good.  And  they  surely  must  be  in 
earnest,  for  they  know  they  cannot  deceive  Him 
who  divines  the  mysteries  of  every  heart,"  said 
Isroel. 

At  about  four  o'clock  the  entire  family  sat 
down  by  the  table  to  eat  the  afternoon  meal  that 
was  to  fortify  them  for  the  great  Fast  which 
[83] 


Contrite  Hearts 


must  not  be  broken  before  sundown  of  the 
succeeding  day.  Little  was  spoken  during  the 
repast.  Something  solemn,  something  sacred 
and  awful,  seemed  to  fill  the  atmosphere.  They 
all  felt  the  nearness  of  the  "Shkhinoh,"  —  the 
spirit  of  God. 

The  grace  after  the  meal  was  chanted  at 
first  slowly,  plaintively;  then,  towards  the  end, 
it  burst  forth  in  a  trembling  volume  of  rhythmic 
wailing,  occasionally  interrupted  by  spasmodic 
sobs. 

As  soon  as  the  grace  was  finished  Isroel  sent 
Yoshke  out  into  the  yard  to  fill  four  tin  cans 
with  earth,  and  when  these  had  been  filled  he 
stuck  into  them  four  huge  candles,  and  lighted 
them. 

"Tate,  every  year  you  light  only  three  can- 
dles, why  do  you  light  this  time  four?"  inquired 
Yoshke. 

The  cantor  turned  his  face  away  from  his 
son,  for  it  betrayed  his  inward  suffering;  then, 
mastering  himself,  he  said: 

"Ask  no  questions,  Yosele.  You  will  know 
it  when  you  grow  older." 

When  Beile  Reize  glanced  at  the  candles,  her 
[84] 


The  Day  of  Atonement 


heart  shrank;  and  she  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 
Usually  but  three  candles  were  burning  in  their 
house  on  Yom  Kippur  —  two  for  the  souls  of 
IsroePs  parents  who  were  dead,  and  one  for 
her  mother's  soul.  She  understood  the  meaning 
of  the  additional  candle.  With  aching  heart 
she  donned  her  white  satin  waist,  which  she 
wore  on  Yom  Kippur  only,  and  her  black  satin 
skirt.  Then  she  muffled  herself  in  a  large 
shawl,  and  took  the  prayer-book  under  her  arm. 

In  the  meantime  Isroel  removed  his  boots, 
put  on  galoshes,  wrapped  himself  in  his  prayer- 
shawl,  and  threw  his  overcoat  on  his  shoulders, 
the  sleeves  dangling  down. 

Before  leaving  the  house  he  laid  his  hands  on 
his  children's  heads  and,  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
blessed  his  sons  that  God  might  make  them 
like  unto  Ephraim  and  Manasseh,  and  his 
daughters  like  unto  Sarah,  Rebecca,  Rachel, 
and  Leah. 

"Nu,  let  us  make  haste,  we  may  miss  'Kol 
Nidrei,'"  he  said.  And  all,  save  Zipke  and 
Shleimke,  went  out,  with  bowed  heads  and 
contrite  hearts,  to  plead  before  the  Lord  in 
Granat's  house  of  prayer. 
[85] 


Contrite  Hearts 


It  was  a  quiet,  warm  evening.  The  traffic  of 
the  town  was  hushed,  and  all  Jews,  even  those 
who  break  the  Sabbath  throughout  the  year  and 
disregarded  the  Jewish  dietary  laws,  were  gath- 
ered in  the  synagogues,  ready  to  pray  side  by 
side  with  those  who  were  daily  steeped  in 
prayers. 

As  darkness  was  gathering,  the  streets  in  the 
Jewish  quarter  became  deserted.  The  moon 
was  gliding  along  the  sky,  now  hiding  beyond 
the  clouds  which  were  hastening  westward  like 
dark  waves;  now  emerging  —  a  glittering  globe 
of  silver. 

Zipke  was  rocking  the  child  in  the  basket, 
singing: 

"Der  Malachel,  der  gutter,  wet  doch  zein 
dein  hitter.  Shlof,  zhe,  shlof,  mein  kind." 

The  candles  were  burning  on  the  window, 
and  the  yellow,  trembling  flames,  sputtering, 
bending  this  way  and  that,  cast  gloomy  shades 
about  the  room.  Every  now  and  then  Zipke 
glanced  at  the  window  and,  struggling  with 
fear,  repeated  the  same  song  ever  louder  and 
louder.  At  one  time  she  heard  distinctly  foot- 
steps on  the  hill.  She  left  off  singing  and  walked 
[86] 


The  Day  of  Atonement 


up  to  the  window  on  tip-toe,  and,  pressing 
her  face  to  the  window-pane,  she  saw  a  muffled 
figure  advancing  slowly.  Seized  with  fright,  she 
ran  back  to  the  cradle,  clasped  the  child  in  her 
arms,  and  seated  herself  on  the  floor,  under  the 
table.  She  trembled,  holding  her  hand  out- 
stretched, ready  to  stop  Shleimke's  mouth  in 
case  he  should  start  to  cry. 

A  few  minutes  passed.  All  became  quiet 
again.  Zipke  put  the  child  down  on  the  floor, 
and  stealthily  walked  over  to  the  window.  The 
same  figure  was  now  descending  the  hill.  On 
the  sidewalk,  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  she  saw 
her  distinctly,  and  when  the  figure  turned  and 
looked  back,  Zipke  uttered  a  cry.  She  recog- 
nized her  sister  Esther. 

Esther  knew  that  no  one  but  the  little  children 
would  remain  at  home  this  night.  She  longed 
to  see  her  home  once  more,  and  now  that  she 
beheld  the  four  huge  candles  burning  on  the 
window,  she  understood  that  one  of  them  was 
burning  for  her  soul.  She  looked  at  the  sky, 
and  it  appeared  to  her  as  if  the  passing  clouds 
consisted  of  the  smoke  which  rose  from  the 
candles  burning  everywhere  for  the  souls  of  the 
[87] 


Contrite  Hearts 


departed.  And  the  stars,  which  now  peeped 
out  from  the  clouds  and  blinked,  seemed  to  her 
as  the  souls  of  the  righteous  pleading  before  the 
Lord  in  behalf  of  all  the  children  of  Israel. 

Mechanically  her  lips  began  to  move.  She 
mumbled  "Kol  Nidrei,"  —  "All  vows,  obliga- 
tions, and  oaths  ....  shall  be  deemed  absolved, 
forgiven,  annulled,  void,  and  made  of  no  effect ; 
they  shall  not  be  binding,  nor  have  any  power; 
the  vows  shall  not  be  reckoned  vows,  the  obli- 
gations shall  not  be  obligatory,  nor  the  oaths 
considered  as  oaths." 


[88] 


PART  n 


CHAPTER  I 

LETTERS  HOME 

A  TWELVEMONTH  elapsed,  healing 
the  wounds  of  Isroel  and  Beile  Reize, 
and  forcing  their  life  into  its  wonted 
rut.  Again  their  life  rolled  on  evenly,  slowly, 
quietly,  without  any  hitches.  Though  the 
catastrophe  had  left  its  imprint  upon  them,  — 
for  Israel's  erect  frame,  bent  down  under  the 
weight  of  the  misfortune,  was  never  again 
straightened,  and  Beile  Reize's  eyes  remained 
sore  and  dim  from  crying,  —  their  calm  of  soul 
and  peace  of  mind  were  restored,  and  content- 
ment again  hovered  over  everything  in  their 
home. 

Some  people  need  but  little  in  order  to  keep 
their  souls  in  their  bodies  and  be  content,  — 
something  to  eat,  a  place  to  sleep,  plenty  of 
work,  and  faith  in  God. 
Isroel  Lampert  prayed  again  for  the  commu- 
[91] 


Contrite  Hearts 


nity  in  Granat's  synagogue;  his  services  as 
shokhet  were  once  more  in  demand,  and  his 
cheder  had  more  pupils  than  any  other  Hebrew 
school  in  town. 

Beile  Reize  had  heard  nothing  about  Esther 
ever  since  that  stormy  night,  but  rumors  reached 
her  that  Bobrovsky  had  been  expelled  from 
the  university,  and  that  he  disappeared.  Beile 
Reize's  grief  for  Esther  was  drowned  in  her 
prayers  for  Miriam. 

"Dear  God!"  she  often  pleaded,  "make  that 
Miriam's  star  shall  shine  like  the  golden  sun, 
and  make  me  worthy  that  my  eyes  shall  see  her 
go  to  the  Chupoh1  with  an  upright  Jew." 
Occasionally  she  also  prayed  for  her  brother 
Mendel,  who  had  gone  so  far  away,  beyond  the 
ocean,  to  the  New  World. 

Mendel's  first  letter  telling  of  his  struggles  in 
America  had  cast  the  entire  family  into  depres- 
sion. But  later  his  epistles  became  less  gloomy 
—  a  note  of  cheerfulness  and  hope  began  to  ring 
in  them.  And  in  each  succeeding  letter  he 
described  many  things  which  were  new  to  his 
relatives  at  home,  and  which  Beile  Reize  related 

1  Nuptial  canopy. 


Letters  Home 


to  the  women  in  the  Beth  Hamidrash  and  in 
the  market-place. 

Sometimes  Isroel  himself  read  Mendel's  letters 
aloud  in  the  Beth  Hamidrash.  The  listeners 
drank  in  each  and  every  word,  shook  their  heads, 
and  for  many  days  to  come  their  thoughts  and 
conversations  were  confined  to  the  wonderful 
things  going  on  in  America. 

Thus  he  read  to  them  one  day,  between  the 
afternoon  and  evening  prayers,  a  portion  of 
Mendel's  latest  letter.  Some  fifteen  or  twenty 
elderly  men  sat  by  a  long  table  on  which  were 
piled  heavy  volumes  of  the  Talmud.  Open- 
mouthed,  their  eyes  instinct  with  eagerness,  they 
waited  for  news  from  the  New  World.  Near 
Isroel  sat  Naphtoli,  his  chin  resting  on  his  hands, 
his  spectacles  on  his  lofty,  wrinkled  forehead, 
his  small  eyes  half  closed. 

"  'This  land,'  read  Isroel  slowly,  with  empha- 
sis, 'is  full  of  opportunities.'" 

"So!  Full  of  opportunities!"  broke  in  Izkhok 
the  confectioner,  rubbing  his  hands.  "Nu,  nu, 
go  ahead!" 

"Sha!"  "Sha!"  " Don't  interrupt !"  "What's 
this?"  cried  several  voices,  angrily. 
[93] 


Contrite  Hearts 


Isroel  waited  awhile,  and  went  on,  raising  his 
voice : 

" '  This  land  is  full  of  opportunities — for  those 
willing  to  work.' " 

"Aha!"  Avremel  the  cobbler  could  not 
repress  an  exclamation. 

"  'At  home  we  have  a  wrong  idea  about  some 
things.  Work  is  considered  low,  even  degrad- 
ing. A  tailor  or  a  cobbler  is  not  regarded  as  a 
man  at  all.' " 

At  this  point  Avremel  the  cobbler,  his  cap 
pulled  down  to  his  very  eyebrows,  wriggled  in 
his  seat,  blew  his  nose  energetically,  threw  out 
his  chest,  and  began  to  stroke  his  beard. 

"Look  at  him,"  remarked  Isser  the  sexton, 
with  a  smile,  "he's  getting  so  proud  that  he'll 
expect  Maftir  Jonah1  before  long.' 

Peals  of  laughter  greeted  this  remark.  When 
silence  was  restored,  Isroel  continued: 

"'Here  in  America  it  is  different.  All  are 
equal.  Every  one  is  free.  And  all  roads  to 
success  are  open  to  the  able,  the  enterprising, 
the  persevering.'" 

1  On  Yom  Kippur  one  of  the  most  honored  members  of  the 
synagogue  is  called  upon  to  recite  the  Book  of  Jonah. 

[94] 


Letters  Home 


"Zdorovo!  Zdorovo!"  roared  Abrashkin, 
striking  the  table  with  his  gigantic  fist.  "But 
what  he  says  about  every  one  being  equal,  — 
that's  no  good.  Oh,  no !  Take  me,  for  instance. 
I  am  a  Nikolayevsky  under-officer,  with  a  medal 
for  distinction.  I  served  the  Tsar  and  the 
fatherland  for  twenty-five  years.  I  have  rights 
to  live  wherever  I  please  —  in  Moscow,  in  St. 
Petersburg,  in  Siberia  —  where  Jews  are  not 
permitted  to  live.  You  understand,  I  have 
more  rights  than  other  people.  Oho!  And 
there,  in  that  America,  everybody  is  equal.  An 
officer,  a  plain  soldier,  a  scoundrel  —  all  equal ! 
Nyet,  brat!  That's  no  good!" 

This  interrupted  the  reading  of  the  letter  for 
a  few  minutes,  as  some  one,  in  jest,  made  sport 
of  Abrashkin's  feeling  proud  of  his  rank,  and 
Abrashkin  was  not  to  be  silenced  easily. 

Isroel  grew  impatient. 

"If  you  want  me  to  finish  reading  the  letter 
for  you,  you  must  keep  perfectly  quiet,"  he  said. 
"Now  he  speaks  of  the  Jews  in  America :  ' There 
is  no  difference  here  between  Jew  and  Gentile. 
People  flock  hither  from  all  lands,  and  within  a 
few  years  the  Jew,  the  Frenchman,  the  German, 
[951 


Contrite  Hearts 


the  Irishman,  the  Italian,  —  all,  all  are  proud 
that  they  have  become  Americans.  You  ask 
me  about  the  Jews,  about  Jewish  affairs,  about 
Jewish  institutions,  —  well,  we  have  various 
kinds  of  Jews  here.  Orthodox  Jews  —  these 
are  the  plain  Jews,  like  ourselves.  Reformed 
Jews  —  Jews  who  imitate  the  ways  of  the 
Christians.  There  are  also  Jews  here  who  try 
to  be  both  orthodox  and  Reformed  at  the  same 
time,  —  that  is,  neither  this  nor  that. 

" '  One  day  I  went  to  see  how  they  pray  in  the 
"temple"  of  the  Reformed  Jews,  and  (I  actually 
did  not  know  where  I  was)  I  felt  a  cold  empti- 
ness about  me,  and  the  people  sat  there  as 
though  afraid  to  open  their  mouths.  It  all 
seemed  to  me  very  much  like  a  theater,  only 
now  and  then  I  caught  a  Jewish  word  uttered 
by  a  clean-shaven  Rabbi  who  stood  bare-headed 
before  the  sacred  Ark.  It  seemed  to  me  that  in 
imitating  the  ways  of  the  Gentiles  who  are  imi- 
tating us,  they  seem  to  have  lost  that  which 
makes  prayer  sacred  —  sincerity. 

"'To  attract  the  people  to  the  "temple,"  they 
have  girl  choristers  and  an  organ  playing  on 
the  Sabbath  and  on  Sunday,  —  you  must  know 
[96] 


Letters  Home 


that  they  pray  but  twice  a  week  —  in  the 
temple. 

"'Not  long  ago  a  Reformed  Jew  said  to  me, 
good-naturedly:  "  Orthodoxy  is  like  a  good  piece 
of  meat  served  upon  a  dirty  plate.  The  essence, 
the  faith,  is  all  right,  but  the  customs  it  drags 
along  with  it  are  old  and  ugly.  We  Reformed 
Jews  strive  to  modernize  Judaism."  To  which 
I  replied:  "It  is  a  question  yet  whether  our 
customs,  being  old,  are  ugly,  and  whether  yours 
are  beautiful  because  they  are  new,  —  in  other 
words,  it  is  a  question  yet  whether  your  plate  is 
clean,  but  it  is  quite  clear  to  me  that  there  is  no 
meat  on  it  at  all."  Not  only  are  they  not  like 
those  that  shed  burning  tears  on  Smolensky 
Depot  in  Moscow,  who  preferred  to  face  starva- 
tion rather  than  embrace  the  cross  and  live 
perhaps  in  luxury,  they  do  not  even  under- 
stand the  spirit  of  those  martyrs.  Nor  is  it 
likely  that  they  have  among  them  people  like 
those  thousands  of  Abrashkins  who,  though 
forced  in  the  army  with  knout  and  canes  to 
renounce  their  faith,  remained  upright,  pious 
Jews.' " 

All  turned  to  Abrashkin,  who  now  held  his 
[97] 


Contrite  Hearts 


long,  curly,  gray  beard  in  his  hand  and  stared  at 
the  floor.  Only  now  that  Mendel  had  pointed 
it  out  to  them,  they  realized  what  a  martyr  there 
was  in  their  midst,  —  a  man  who  had  withstood 
temptation  for  twenty-five  years,  who  sacrificed 
his  body  for  the  "Holiness  of  His  name." 

The  letter  made  a  profound  impression  upon 
the  listeners. 

"This  breaking  up  of  Israel  into  sections,  these 
disagreements  coming  from  within,  have  brought 
about  the  destruction  of  the  temple!"  declared 
Moshe,  the  writer  of  sacred  scrolls,  with  a  far- 
away look. 

"It's  a  pity  that  we  lost  such  a  young  man  as 
Mendel,"  remarked  Meyer,  the  commissioner. 

"A  pity!    A  pity,  indeed!"  repeated  others. 

"What  is  he  doing  in  America,  Reb  Isroel?" 
asked  Avremel,  the  cobbler,  who  now  grew  bold 
enough  to  speak  in  the  presence  of  the  more 
prominent  members  of  the  Beth  Hamidrash. 

"Reb  Naphtoli,  what  is  your  son  doing  in 
America?"  asked  several  people. 

Isroel  drew  the  letter  from  his  pocket,  and 


"This   is   what    he    writes   about   himself. 
[98] 


Letters  Home 


1  Meanwhile  I  am  working  at  the  machine ;  I  am 
making  cloaks.  In  America  they  call  me  an 
" operator";  in  Moghilyov  they  would  call  me 
plainly  a  tailor.  But  I  am  not  ashamed.  More 
learned  young  men  than  I  have  begun  here  this 
way.'" 

"Ai,  Ai,  such  a  young  man,  with  the  head  of 
a  Goan,1  working.  A  tailor!"  The  confec- 
tioner smacked  his  lips,  and  began  to  scratch 
his  head  with  both  hands. 

"Oi,  Oi,  Oi,  America!"  exclaimed  several 
people,  shrugging  their  shoulders. 

"What  do  you  say  to  it,  Reb  Naphtoli ?  Was 
it  worth  while  to  let  Mendel  go  to  America  to 
become  a  tailor  there?" 

Naphtoli  did  not  reply  at  once.  He  lowered 
his  spectacles  from  his  forehead  to  his  nose,  and 
said,  a  smile  playing  over  his  face: 

"Tell  me,  was  David  a  good  king?" 

"What  a  question!  King  David!  What  a 
question!"  All  wondered  what  connection  there 
could  be  between  King  David  and  Mendel. 

"Nu"  he  said,  lifting  his  forefinger  and 
winking  his  eyes,  "King  David  was  also  a 

'  Great  Rabbi. 
[99] 


Contrite  Hearts 


shepherd,  wasn't  he  ?  And  a  fiddler,  and  com- 
poser of  psalms.  And  yet  all  this  did  not 
interfere  with  his  being  a  great  king,  did  it? 
So  my  son  may  be  a  Talmudist  and  a  tailor, 
and  one  thing  need  not  interfere  with  the 
other." 

"  In  America  a  man  must  do  as  the  Ameri- 
cans do,"  added  Isroel,  smoothing  his  beard. 
"When  Moses  went  up  to  heaven  for  forty 
days  he  stayed  there  without  food,  like  the 
angels;  and  when  the  angels  came  down  to 
Abraham,  they  ate  and  drank  like  human 
beings." 

At  this  time  Mordecai  Granat  entered,  and 
the  sexton  rushed  over  to  the  Bimok,  struck  the 
table  with  his  palm,  and  cried: 

"Maariv!    Maarivl"1 

The  cantor  began,  "Bless  ye  the  Lord,  the 
Blessed!"  To  which  the  congregation  re- 
sponded, "Blessed  be  the  Lord,  the  Blessed!" 

1  Evening  prayer. 


100] 


CHAPTER  II 

GRANAT  AND  LAMPERT 

ONE  Friday  night  Isroel  came  home  from  the 
synagogue,  radiant  with  joy. 

"Good  Sabbath!"  he  said,  greeting  Beile 
Reize  and  the  children. 

"Good  Sabbath!  Good  Sabbath!  Good 
Sabbath!"  echoed  the  children,  merrily. 

Isroel  removed  his  soft  hat,  put  on  his  skull- 
cap, and  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  room, 
clapping  his  hands,  snapping  his  fingers,  singing 
softly: 

" Sholem  Aleichem— "  "Bless  me  with  peace, 
O  Angels  of  peace,  Heavenly  Angels  of  the  Holy 
King  of  kings,  blessed  be  His  name." 

Miriam  caught  up  the  melody  and  joined  her 
father,  in  a  low  voice.  Soon  Yoshke,  Arke,  and 
Zipke  burst  into  song,  while  Beile  Reize  was 
finishing  the  evening  prayer,  saying:  "It  is  for 
us  to  praise  the  Master  of  all,"  spitting  aside  as 
a  sign  that  she  envied  not  the  wealth  of  the 

[101] 


Contrite  Hearts 


heathens,  and  then  bowing  her  head  to  the 
King  of  kings. 

The  candles,  blessed  by  Beile  Reize  in  honor 
of  the  Sabbath,  burning  brightly  in  the  polished 
brass  candlesticks;  the  snow-white  tablecloth 
spread  over  the  long  table ;  the  two  large  twined 
loaves  of  white  bread,  partly  covered  with  a 
red,  embroidered  cloth;  the  wine,  the  silver  cup, 
the  stuffed  fish,  —  all  bespoke  that  Sabbath  — 
peace,  repose  and  solemn  cheer  —  was  en- 
throned in  the  little  house  on  the  hill. 

The  song  of  peace  was  the  same  Isroel  was 
wont  to  sing  every  Friday  night,  the  same 
words,  the  same  melody.  But  this  time  his 
voice  quivered  with  trills  of  gladness  and  happi- 
ness so  intense  and  mellifluent  that  it  sounded 
altogether  new. 

"Who  can  find  a  virtuous  woman?"  he  soon 
declaimed  softly,  "for  her  price  is  far  above 
rubies.  .  .  .  Many  daughters  have  done  vir- 
tuously, but  thou  excellest  them  all.  Favour  is 
deceitful,  and  beauty  is  vain ;  but  a  woman  that 
praiseth  the  Lord,  she  shall  be  praised.  Give 
her  the  fruit  of  her  hands,  and  let  her  own  works 
praise  her  in  the  gates." 

[103] 


Granat  and  Lampert 


Isroel  pronounced  the  benediction  over  the 
wine,  and  the  cup  was  passed  from  mouth  to 
mouth.  When  the  turn  came  for  Miriam  to 
drink,  Isroel  remarked,  jestingly: 

"Drink,  drink,  and  you'll  get  a  nice  bride- 
groom, my  daughter." 

"I  am  too  young  to  think  of  bridegrooms," 
said  Miriam,  reddening,  passing  the  cup  to 
Yoshke. 

"Your  mother  was  not  much  older  when  she 
went  to  the  Chupoh." 

Suddenly  he  turned  to  Beile  Reize  and  asked 
in  a  tone  of  triumph  and  pride: 

"Did  you  really  think  that  the  Uppermost 
had  turned  away  from  us  forever,  that  He  would 
never  again  bless  us  with  joy?" 

"The  Uppermost  is  merciful — "  mumbled 
Beile  Reize. 

Isroel  interrupted  her. 

"A  'mazel  tov'1  is  coming  to  us,"  he  said, 
"and  what  a  'mazel  tov'\" 

"A  'mazel  tov'?"  she  wondered.  "To  us? 
May  we  live  in  luck!  What  is  it?" 

"Our  daughter—" 

1  Congratulations  and  wishes  of  good  luck. 


Contrite  Hearts 


"Nu,  nu?"  asked  Beile  Reize,  impatiently. 

"Our  Miriam  has  become  a  bride." 

' '  Miriam  a  bride !  Dear  God !  Isroel ! "  she 
cried  in  ecstasy,  as  she  ran  over  to  Miriam 
who  sat  by  the  table,  with  downcast  eyes, 
motionless. 

"Mazel  tov  to  you!  Mazel  tov!"  Her  voice 
quivered,  her  sore  eyes  sparkled  with  the  fire  of 
youth.  She  embraced  her  daughter  and  kissed 
her. 

"Beile,  why  don't  you  ask  who  the  bride- 
groom is?"  said  Isroel,  smiling.  "You  wish 
her  mazel  tov  before  you  know  who  he  is.  As 
I  see,  it  is  all  the  same  to  you." 

"If  you  are  satisfied  with  him,  I  will  surely 
be  satisfied,"  replied  Beile  Reize. 

"You  know,  Ephraim,  Reb  Mordecai  Gra- 
nat's  son;  not  the  fiddler  — " 

"Reb  Mordecai  Granat's  son!"  gasped  Beile 
Reize,  with  astonishment. 

"Ah!  What?  One  may  be  proud  of  such 
a  match!  Ah!"  exclaimed  Isroel,  ecstatically. 
"It  was  this  way.  I  was  just  going  out  of  the 
synagogue  when  Reb  Mordecai  comes  over  to 
me  and  says:  'Reb  Isroel,  wait  a  while  for  me; 
[104] 


Granat  and  Lampert 


I  want  to  speak  with  you  about  a  certain  matter.' 
Who  would  ever  think  that  he,  Reb  Mordecai, 
would  speak  to  me  about  Miriam?  Nu,  on 
the  way  he  told  me  that  his  son,  Ephraim,  loves 
our  Miriam.  And  Ephraim  is  as  dear  to  Reb 
Mordecai  as  his  eyes  in  his  head.  Ephraim  is 
barely  twenty-one,  and  yet  the  old  man's  affairs 
are  all  in  his  hands.  He  could  make  the  best 
match  in  Moghilyov.  The  old  man,  I  would 
swear,  is  not  quite  satisfied  with  his  son's 
choice,"  —  he  lowered  his  voice, — "but  he 
had  to  consent.  Reb  Mordecai  may  be  here 
to-morrow." 

Isroel  laid  his  hand  on  Miriam's  shoulder 
and  kissed  her  on  the  head. 

"Lift  up  your  head,  my  little  dove  —  nu, 
what  do  you  say  to  your  chosen1?" 

Miriam  maintained  silence.  Looking  at  her, 
Isroel  smiled  with  satisfaction  and  pride.  While 
it  was  the  smile  of  a  father  admiring  his 
child,  it  was  also  the  smile  of  a  general  per- 
fectly pleased  with  his  army  on  the  eve  of  a 
battle. 

Neither   Isroel   nor   Beile   Reize   had   ever 


Contrite  Hearts 


dreamt  that  their  Miriam  would  marry  into  the 
aristocratic  family  of  Granat,  and,  with  tears 
of  joy,  they  now  thanked  the  Lord  for  sending 
such  a  blessing  upon  their  heads.  They  did 
not  know  what  the  future  held  in  store  for  them. 
They  did  not  suspect  that  another  storm  was 
destined  soon  to  shake  their  peaceful  life  to  its 
very  foundation. 

Miriam  lay  awake  all  night  long,  and  she 
listened  with  all  her  being  to  the  murmuring  of 
the  river,  to  its  dull,  deep  sighing,  and  to  the 
whisperings  of  the  wind.  Her  soul  writhed  in 
unshed  tears,  agitated  with  indefinite  yet  pain- 
ful forebodings. 

******* 

The  Jews  of  Moghily6v  were  not  a  little  sur- 
prised by  the  engagement  of  Ephraim,  Mordecai 
Granat's  son,  and  Tsroel  the  cantor's  daughter; 
but  they  were  still  more  surprised  when,  a 
month  later,  Ephraim  was  taken  as  a  recruit, 
and  Granat's  money  and  influence  failed  to 
accomplish  for  his  favorite  son  what  it  had 
accomplished  for  his  elder  son,  Saul. 

Mordecai's  hopes  of  freeing  Ephraim  from 
service  were  shattered  by  an  unforeseen  cir- 
[106] 


Granat  and  Lampert 


cumstance.  A  new  official  had  suddenly  been 
appointed,  and,  unlike  his  predecessors,  he 
refused  to  accept  a  bribe.  In  the  meantime 
Ephraim,  with  a  company  of  recruits,  was  sent 
away  to  the  Caucasus, 


[107] 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  VIOLINIST 

THE  second  day  of  Rosh  Hashonoh  was 
declining,  and  the  sons  of  Israel  were  gathered 
in  their  synagogues,  devoutly  chanting  the 
psalms,  and  waiting  for  the  first  three  stars  to 
appear  in  the  sky,  when  it  would  be  time  to 
offer  the  evening  prayers,  marking  the  passing 
of  the  holy  and  the  advent  of  the  profane. 

Saul,  the  first-born  son  of  Mordecai  Granat, 
was  not  in  the  synagogue  with  his  father.  He 
stood  by  the  window  at  home,  gazing,  now  at 
the  dark  waters  of  the  Dniepr  rolling  southward, 
now  at  Miriam,  who  sat  near  by,  watching  the 
party-colored  pigeons  as  they  danced  about 
before  the  house  with  coquettish  gracefulness. 
In  the  distance,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
river,  the  glittering  crosses  and  the  cupolas  of 
the  churches  reflected  the  last  rays  of  the  setting 
sun. 

Suddenly  the  church  bells  rang  out,  and  dull, 
[108] 


The  Violinist 


trembling  volumes  of  sound  filled  the  air.  The 
pigeons  began  to  bustle  about  with  fright,  they 
flapped  their  wings  and  hastily  dispersed  in 
confusion.  Miriam  followed  them  with  her 
eyes  for  a  while;  then,  as  she  listened  to  the 
funereal,  solemn  tolling,  she  suddenly  recalled 
all  the  importance  of  the  passing  Holy  Day  — 
the  awe  of  Rosh  Hashonoh,  with  its  special 
prayers  for  forgiveness,  and  the  Blowing  of  the 
Horn.  She  shuddered,  and  turning  toward 
Saul  regarded  him  steadfastly,  and  asked  in  a 
low  voice: 

"Why  did  you  not  go  to  the  synagogue?" 
"Because  it  was  but  yesterday  that  I  shook 
all  my  sins  into  the  river,1  and  therefore  I  can 
well  afford  to  miss  one  prayer,"  he  said,  laugh- 
ing. "Besides,"  he  added  in  a  whisper,  "I  did 
not  go  to  the  synagogue  because  you  are  here  — 
and  I  like  to  be  near  you." 

"Saul,  father  will  be  angry,"  said  Miriam, 
casting  down  her  eyes,  and  toying  with  her  long 
braid  which  lay  across  her  shoulder. 

1  In  accordance  with  an  ancient  Jewish  custom,  called  "  Tash- 
likh,"  orthodox  Jews  go  to  the  bank  of  a  river  on  Rosh  Hashonoh 
to  "  cast  their  sins  "  into  the  flowing  waters. 
[109] 


Contrite  Hearts 


"Thank  God,  I  am  past  thirteen!  What- 
ever sins  I  commit  will  fall  on  my  own 
shoulders." 

They  became  silent  again.  Miriam's  heart 
beat  painfully  fast.  Of  late  she  had  always  been 
seized  with  alarm  in  Saul's  presence;  she  could 
not  account  for  his  strange  bearing  toward  her. 
She  feared  him,  but  she  was  powerless  to  repulse 
him. 

When  the  church  bells  ceased  ringing,  Saul 
drew  closer  to  her,  and,  laying  his  hand  upon 
her  head,  asked  softly: 

"Shall  I  play  for  you  'The  Legend,' 
Miriam?" 

"On  Rosh  Hashonoh!"  she  exclaimed,  lifting 
her  head.  Her  eyes  opened  wide,  mirroring  at 
once  astonishment  and  fright. 

"The  holiday  is  over  —  the  sun  has  set  al- 
ready." Saul  pointed  to  the  west.  The  day 
was  dying.  The  sun,  as  if  wounded,  was 
slowly  sinking  in  night's  embrace,  and  the 
clouds,  motionless,  like  massive  blocks  of  opal, 
were  turning  crimson,  as  though  bathed  in 
blood. 

"But  they  have  not  yet  returned  from  the 
[no] 


The  Violinist 


evening  prayer  —  your  father  will  be  angry," 
she  said  restlessly,  gazing  out  of  the  window. 

Saul  straightened  himself,  threw  out  his 
chest,  and  began  to  stroke  his  small  black 
beard. 

"Miriam!"  he  drawled  out,  shaking  his  head 
reproachfully.  ' '  Miriam ! ' ' 

Then,  seizing  the  violin  which  lay  on  the 
table  in  the  corner  of  the  room,  he  began  to 
play  his  favorite  piece,  "The  Legend."  He 
was  apparently  very  nervous.  His  large,  black, 
almost  circular  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Miriam's 
perfect  profile,  as  if  half  praying,  half  dreaming. 
His  face  quivered,  his  tall,  thin,  somewhat 
stooping  figure  swayed  back  and  forth  as  the 
bow  kept  whisking  across  the  strings,  bringing 
forth  sweet,  melancholy  tones.  Now  it  was 
like  the  soft  sighing  of  the  breeze  through  the 
dense  forest;  now  the  plaintive  cry  of  an  over- 
burdened heart  rang  out,  and  soon  mingled 
with  deep,  Jewish  moans.  His  head  was  bent 
on  one  side,  his  lips  moved  so  that,  at  times,  it 
seemed  as  though  the  moans  came  not  from  the 
violin,  but  from  his  heart.  Miriam  listened 
with  close  attention.  Her  beautiful  face  with 
[in] 


Contrite  Hearts 


its  fine,  regular  features,  seemed  colder,  more 
serious  than  usual.  There  was  an  expression 
of  sadness  in  her  large,  dark  eyes;  her  hair 
was  tossed  by  the  breeze  beating  against  her 
cheek.  But  she  did  not  stir.  She  sat  as  if 
petrified. 

When  Saul  stopped  playing,  and  the  sound  of 
the  last  note  died  away,  Miriam  lifted  her  eyes, 
and  fairly  choking  with  emotion,  exclaimed : 

"Saul,  you  never  played  like  this  —  never!" 
and  she  tossed  her  head  back,  and  added: 
"Another  moment  and  I  would  cry  like  a 
child  —  the  tears  were  already  choking  me." 

Saul  thrust  the  violin  under  his  arm  and 
advanced  toward  her. 

"You  love  music,  Miriam.  You  love  art! 
I  have  noticed  it  on  several  occasions,"  he  said 
abruptly. 

"  I  don't  know  why  —  but  whenever  you  play 
'The  Legend'  I  feel  like  crying;  my  heart  beats 
so  fast,  it  seems  ready  to  burst,  and  a  queer 
sensation  takes  my  breath  away.  I  love  it,  and 
yet  I  fear  it."  Miriam  spoke  softly,  slowly, 
without  looking  at  him,  as  though  defining 
to  herself  her  own  feelings.  Then  she  again 

[112] 


The  Violinist 


lifted  her  eyes  to  him,  and  said,  with  a  sad 
smile: 

"I  often  think  there  is  witchery  in  your 
fiddle!" 

"Miriam!"  he  exclaimed,  taking  her  hand 
into  his,  and  gazing  into  her  eyes.  He  now 
stood  so  near  to  her  that  she  felt  his  hot  breath 
when  he  spoke.  "Miriam,  would  you  want  me 
to  become  great?  As  great  a  musician  as 
Paganini,  for  instance,  or  as  Wieniawsky  ?  Eh  ? 
I  know  you  would !  Well,  just  picture  to  your- 
self that  I  —  great,  famous  —  that  I  stand  upon 
the  stage  of  one  of  the  greatest  theaters  in  the 
world  and  play  'The  Legend.'  The  audience 
is  spellbound.  It  listens  with  bated  breath. 
When  I  have  finished,  it  bursts  into  wild  ap- 
plause. It  cheers  me.  The  public  wants  me 
to  play  an  encore,  while  I  —  I  stand  in  the 
center  of  the  stage,  not  heeding  the  crowd  —  my 
eyes  are  fixed  upon  a  face  more  perfect  than 
sculptor  ever  fashioned.  Just  picture  to  your- 
self that  you  sit  near  the  stage,  that  you  hear 
the  deafening  applause  about  you,  that  you  see 
the  beautiful  women  yearning  for  a  smile,  for 
a  look  from  me,  and  you  —  you  feel  that  my 


Contrite  Hearts 


eyes  seek  yours  —  yours  alone,  that  I  care  not 
for  the  crowd.  You  see  me  standing  amidst 
magnificent  bouquets  —  and  I  trample  them 
under  my  feet,  in  order  to  pick  up  the  rose 
which  you  throw  to  me,  and  I  wait  for  a  sign 
from  you,  for  a  single  little  nod.  Then  I  play 
again  —  Miriam,- how  would  you  feel?" 

Saul  straightened  himself,  brushed  his  hair 
back  from  his  forehead,  and  waited. 

"I  would  certainly  feel  proud  of  my  brother- 
in-law,"  replied  the  girl,  confused. 

"Miriam,  picture  to  yourself  that  you  were  a 
still  nearer  relative  to  me  — " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked  per- 
plexedly. 

"Indeed,  the  very  nearest  relative  of  mine  — " 

"Saul!  You  are  carried  away  too  far  by 
your  fantasy;  you  are  forgetting  yourself!" 
Miriam  arose  from  her  seat.  "I  must  go 
home,"  she  said  firmly,  but  Saul  seized  her  by 
the  arms.  "Wait,  just  a  minute,"  he  muttered, 
quivering  feverishly.  "It  is  true  I  am  for- 
getting myself  in  your  presence,  just  as  I  forget 
myself  when  I  am  alone  with  my  violin  —  but  I 
feel  happy  — 


The  Violinist 


"It  is  late,"  she  interrupted  him,  freeing 
herself  from  his  grasp.  "Father  may  come  at 
any  moment." 

But  he  drew  near  to  her  again,  and  continued, 
wildly  flourishing  his  arms: 

"Miriam,  you  must  save  me,  you  must!  You 
must!  Be  mine  or  I'll  make  an  end  to  it  all! 
And  the  world  will  never  know  that  I  was  a 
genius,  the  world  will  never  know !  But,  some- 
times, at  night,  you  will  jump  up  from  your 
sleep;  your  conscience  will  rob  you  of  your 
rest,  of  your  peace  of  mind.  You  will  feel 
guilty,  you  will  feel  sorry,  but  it  will  be  too 
late!" 

The  girl  was  overpowered  with  emotion  and 
agitation.  She  could  not  utter  a  word.  Her 
head  was  reeling,  her  heart  burning.  She  did 
not  know  what  was  going  on  about  her.  And 
exhausted,  pale  and  shivering,  she  sank  back 
into  the  chair. 

"Miriam,"  went  on  the  violinist,  excitedly , 
"though  Ephraim  is  a  brother  to  me,  yet  I 
must  tell  you,  he  is  not  your  equal,  and  he 
surely  will  not  be  your  equal  when  he  returns 
from  the  army.  A  soldier,  whose  thoughts  are 


Contrite  Hearts 


disciplined,  forever  occupied  with  sour  cabbage 
soup  and  gruel,  cannot  appreciate  a  girl  like 
you."  He  rose  to  his  full  height,  and  added: 
"Oh,  Miriam,  only  the  artist  can  appeal  to  the 
soul,  can  ennoble  and  uplift  it  by  his  own  artis- 
tic soul!  I'll  take  you  away  from  this  narrow 
place.  I  am  choking  here,  amidst  people  who 
do  nothing  but  pray,  eat  and  sleep,  buy  and 
sell,  and  pray  again!  Miriam!"  He  bent  for- 
ward, and,  clasping  her  in  his  arms,  imprinted 
a  passionate  kiss  upon  her  forehead. 

With  a  cry  of  horror  she  shrank  from  his 
embrace,  and,  trembling  like  a  wounded  bird, 
rushed  toward  the  door. 

On  the  threshold  stood  the  tall,  broad-shoul- 
dered figure  of  Mordecai  Granat.  Having  en- 
tered the  room  unnoticed,  he  remained,  as 
chained,  near  the  door,  when  his  son's  last  words 
reached  his  ears. 

"What's  this?"  he  cried,  in  a  voice  quivering 
with  rage.  "What's  going  on  here?  Love 
affairs  in  the  dark?  Abomination!  On  Rosh 
Hashonoh!  Come  here!"  he  thundered. 

Saul  hesitated  a  few  moments,  then  walked 
up  to  his  father. 

[116] 


The  Violinist 


11  My  first-born ! "  went  on  the  old  man.  "  My 
artist!  You  can't  bear  the  people  who  do 
nothing  but  pray,  eat,  and  sleep?  My  aristo- 
crat!" and  he  struck  him  a  ringing  blow  on  the 
cheek.  "Go  now!"  The  old  man  stamped  his 
foot,  and  began  to  pace  the  room  to  and  fro, 
with  rapid  strides. 

"  Woe  to  my  gray  hair  —  to  my  old  age!"  he 
muttered  to  himself.  "Love  intrigues  right 
under  my  nose,  while  poor  Ephraim  is  darken- 
ing away  in  the  army.  That  means  to  make  a 
laughing-stock  of  everybody  —  of  Ephraim,  of 
me,  of  God  himself  —  that  means  to  disgrace, 
to  bespatter  with  mud,  the  whole  family  of 
Granat  —  actually  to  put  a  fig  under  the 
nose  — " 

Suddenly  he  paused  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  and  turning  to  his  son,  cried  in  a  resolute 
tone: 

"Sheiel,  you  shall  leave  the  house  to-night! 
Do  you  hear  ?  Not  a  trace  of  you  shall  be  left 
here." 

"And  you,"  he  turned  to  Miriam,  "a  Jewish 
daughter!  We'll  see  what  Reb  Isroel  will  say 
to  it!  Such  an  honorable  Jew!  What  your 
["7] 


Contrite  Hearts 


grandfather  will  say !  Go !  Your  foot  shall  not 
cross  my  threshold  again.  Begone!" 

"Reb  Mordecai!"  she  said  faintly. 

"Begone!"  he  cried. 

With  her  head  bent  upon  her  breast,  the  girl 
walked  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ANOTHER  CALAMITY 

ISROEL  was  reading  a  letter  from  Mendel, 
which  had  arrived  the  day  before  but  remained 
unopened  until  the  close  of  Rosh  Hashonoh. 
Around  the  table  sat  Naphtoli,  Beile  Reize  and 
the  children,  leaning  forward  expectantly. 
Miriam  was  not  there. 

Suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  Mordecai 
Granat  rushed  into  the  house. 

tlNu,  Reb  Isroel,  what  do  you  say  to  it?"  he 
exploded,  pale-faced,  his  eyes  flashing  wildly, 
his  hands  trembling.  "Fine,  eh?" 

All  stared  at  him  in  dismay. 

"Where  is  Miriam?"  cried  Granat. 

"What  is  it,  Reb  Mordecai?"  asked  the 
cantor,  in  a  frightened  voice.  "What  has 
happened?" 

He  advanced  toward  Granat,  his  heart 
beating  to  suffocation. 

["9] 


Contrite  Hearts 


"God  be  with  you,  Reb  Mordecai,  what  is 
it?"  burst  out  Beile  Reize. 

"I  am  asking  you,  —  where  is  Miriam?" 
Mordecai  sputtered  and  shook  as  he  spoke. 
"Have  you  seen  her  after  maariv,  or  have  you 
not?  Has  she  told  it  to  you,  or  has  she 
not?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Israel  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  "As  true  as  I  am  a  Jew,  I  don't 
understand  you." 

Granat  lifted  his  head  and,  knitting  his  brow, 
cried,  without  looking  at  any  one: 

"Love  intrigues!  On  Rosh  Hashonoh!  A 
bride!"  He  faced  Israel  and  added,  flourishing 
his  arms:  "If  a  Jewish  daughter  acts  like  this, 
then  the  world  is  at  an  end,  then  the  world  is 
no  longer  a  world." 

Granat  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  room, 
clutching  his  hair. 

"What  is  it?  What  is  it?  Where  is  Mir- 
iam?" cried  Beile  Reize,  dark  forebodings 
rushing  to  her  heart. 

Mordecai  paused  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
and  said,  tugging  at  his  white  beard: 

"I  have  driven  your  daughter  out  of  my 

[120] 


Another  Calamity 


house.  I  have  told  her  that  her  foot  shall  not 
cross  my  threshold!" 

"Reb  Mordecai!  Reb  Mordecai!"  exclaimed 
the  cantor,  overwhelmed,  unable  to  utter  another 
word. 

Beile  Reize  stood  a  few  moments  dazed 
by  the  blow.  Suddenly  a  sob  broke  forth 
from  her  heart.  She  ran  up  to  Granat,  and 
cried : 

"Reb  Mordecai,  God  be  with  you.  What 
have  you  done?  You  had  better  cut  our 
throats,  and  make  an  end  to  it  all.  Take  a 
knife  and  cut  our  throats,  —  let  our  eyes  not  see 
the  disgrace." 

Naphtoli,  who  sat  in  silence  all  this  while, 
jumped  to  his  feet.  His  face  was  red  as  fire; 
his  eyes  wandered  about  like  those  of  an  en- 
trapped beast;  his  white,  heavy  eyebrows 
twitched  continually.  He  struck  the  table  with 
his  fist,  and  said  in  a  quivering  voice: 

"Reb  Mordecai,  what  right  have  you  to  shed 
our  blood?  Do  you  think  that  because  you 
are  Reb  Mordecai  Granat  therefore  our  blood 
is  not  blood  ?  If  you  have  something  to  tell  us, 
tell  it  to  us  like  a  man." 

[121] 


Contrite  Hearts 


Mordecai,  enraged,  surveyed  the  watchmaker 
several  times  from  head  to  foot. 

"I  am  not  speaking  to  you,"  he  said,  turning 
away  from  him.  "Reb  Isroel,  I  have  come  to 
tell  you  that  I  break  my  son's  engagement  to 
your  daughter.  Ephraim  will  not  marry  a  girl 
who  carries  on  love  intrigues." 

"It  is  a  lie!  It  is  a  lie!"  cried  Naphtoli, 
stamping  his  foot.  "Miriam  will  not  do  such 
a  thing.  Say  that  you  have  changed  your 
mind  —  that  you  don't  want  a  poor  man's 
daughter  as  your  daughter-in-law  —  that  you 
have  found  some  one  with  a  rich  dowry.  Oh, 
I  understand  you  through  and  through." 

For  a  moment  a  deathlike  silence  fell  over 
the  room.  Then  Mordecai  Granat  cried,  shak- 
ing his  ringer  at  the  old  man : 

"Reb  Naphtoli,  it  will  be  healthier  for  you  if 
you  hold  your  peace.  'Whoso  keepeth  his 
mouth  and  his  tongue  keepeth  his  soul  from 
troubles.'"  And  he  turned  to  Beile  Reize.  "I 
am  telling  you  —  my  own  eyes  have  seen  Miriam 
and  my  son,  Sheiel,  kissing.  I  have  driven 
them  both  out  of  the  house.  My  heart,  like 
yours,  is  bursting  from  disgrace." 


Another  Calamity 


Isroel  sat  by  the  table,  moaning,  his  face 
buried  in  his  hands,  while  Beile  Reize  sobbed: 

* '  Woe  is  me !  Creator  of  the  universe !  Where- 
fore dost  Thou  punish  us  like  this?  Have 
mercy!  Have  mercy!" 

Granat  stood  awhile,  lost  in  meditation,  and 
walked  out  in  silence. 

The  blow  was  so  sudden,  so  overwhelming, 
so  terrible,  that  for  some  time  Isroel  and  Beile 
Reize  did  not  stir. 

Naphtoli  mastered  himself  and  broke  the 
painful  silence. 

"Isroel,  why  do  we  sit  here  with  folded  arms? 
Let  us  not  sleep.  Come,  let  us  go  out  and  look 
for  her." 

Isroel  waved  his  hand,  despondently. 

"If  it  has  been  decreed  that  she  shall  come, 
be  sure  she  will  come,"  he  said. 

"Do  not  depend  on  miracles.  Come,"  en- 
treated him  the  old  man,  but  Isroel  made  no 
reply.  A  little  later  he  rose  from  the  bench 
and,  clasping  his  head  in  both  hands,  said,  with 
a  sigh: 

"I  am  weary  of  my  life!" 


Contrite  Hearts 


It  was  a  night  of  horror  in  the  little  house  on 
the  hill.  Moans  and  wailings  rent  the  air  inces- 
santly. Psalms  were  read  and  prayers  offered 
in  hysterical  accents.  But  the  slowly  passing 
hours  wore  away  whatever  hope  was  still  left. 

At  midnight  there  was  still  no  sign  of  Miriam. 

Beile  Reize  seated  herself  by  the  window, 
forcing  her  weak  eyes  to  penetrate  the  darkness. 
She  looked  up  and  saw  a  lonely  star  in  the  sky, 
and  it  seemed  to  her  that  it  was  the  eye  of  God. 
She  fixed  her  eyes  at  the  star,  and  prayed  emo- 
tionally, the  tears  coursing  down  her  cheeks: 

"Look  down  upon  us.  What  is  our  life? 
What  do  we  live  for,  if  not  for  our  children? 
Look  down  upon  my  daughter,  and  guide  her 
steps  homeward." 

Suddenly  it  appeared  to  her  as  if  a  cloud 
passed  and  covered  the  star  —  Beile  Reize  felt 
that  the  Uppermost  turned  His  eye  away  from 
her.  She  shuddered,  her  lips  opened  as  if  to 
say  something,  she  heaved  a  long-drawn  moan, 
everything  began  to  whirl  about  her,  and  she 
sank  to  the  ground,  hugging  the  prayer-book 
to  her  bosom.  The  light  of  her  dim  eyes  went 
out  forever. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  ELOPEMENT 

WHEN  Miriam,  driven  from  Granat's  house, 
ran  down  the  hill,  she  paused  on  the  sidewalk, 
not  knowing  whither  to  go.  Her  heart  beat 
painfully  fast,  her  hands  and  her  feet  trembled, 
and  her  face,  fanned  by  the  fresh  breeze  from 
the  river,  was  burning.  She  felt  that  something 
terrible  had  happened,  something  which  was 
certain  to  overthrow  the  peace  and  happiness  in 
her  home. 

Suddenly  some  one  touched  her  on  the  shoul- 
der. Miriam  shuddered  and,  turning  around, 
she  found  herself  face  to  face  with  Saul. 

"Miriam,"  he  said,  agitated,  "God  himself 
has  decreed  it  that  we  should  go  together.  We 
have  both  been  driven  from  the  house." 

Miriam  eyed  him  angrily. 

"What  have  you  done?  Go  away.  Leave 
me  alone,"  she  cried. 


Contrite  Hearts 


Saul  seized  her  hand  and  pressed  it  firmly. 

" Miriam,  my  love  for  you  makes  me  insane!" 
he  exclaimed  in  a  dull  voice.  "If  you  only 
knew  how  I  am  suffering!  Could  you  not  see 
that  I  was  not  master  over  myself  ?  My  feelings 
spoke  to  you.  My  heart  was  pining  away, 
thirsting  for  love.  My  heart  was  on  my  lips 
when  I  kissed  you.  And  now  that  it  drank  in 
new  life,  vigor,  joy  of  living,  now  you  are 
turning  away  from  me." 

In  disconnected  sentences  the  violinist  spoke 
to  her,  like  a  madman,  now  pleading  for  mercy, 
now  reproaching  her  for  being  cruel,  heartless. 
He  told  her  that  all  was  over  between  her  and 
Ephraim,  that  his  father  would  break  their  en- 
gagement, that  her  disgrace  would  be  indelible. 

"Your  life,"  he  said,  "will  be  wretched,  mis- 
erable among  these  bigots.  Your  own  father 
will  drive  you  from  the  door,  though  you  are  as 
innocent  as  a  babe.  Come  with  me !  Whatever 
your  eyes  may  see  and  your  heart  desire  shall 
be  yours.  We  will  go  far,  far  away  —  into  a 
foreign  land.  There  we  will  live.  Here  we  do 
not  live.  Come,  do  not  hesitate,  or  it  will  be 
too  late.  I'll  make  an  end  to  it  all.  The 
[126] 


The  Elopement 


Dniepr  will  close  my  eyes  forever.  For  what 
is  my  life  to  me,  what  is  my  youth,  my  art, 
without  you?" 

And  the  naive  girl,  carried  away  by  the  fire 
and  the  wildness  of  his  words,  by  the  impetu- 
osity of  his  gestures,  yielded. 

Two  hours  later  they  were  speeding  up  the 
Dniepr  on  the  little  steamship  Golubchik,  bound 
for  Orsha,  whence  they  were  to  go  by  rail  to 
Rotterdam,  and  then,  across  the  Atlantic  to  the 
New  World. 

Saul  stood  on  deck,  and  as  if  intoxicated  with 
happiness  watched  the  black  waves  as  they 
splashed  against  the  side  of  the  boat,  and  turned 
into  foam  under  the  noisily  revolving  wheels. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  the  little  steamer  was 
carrying  him  and  his  sweetheart  away  from 
misery  and  fanaticism,  from  the  dreary,  suffo- 
cating little  world,  where  the  peasant's  jig  was 
held  in  greater  esteem  than  Rubinstein  and 
Tchaikowsky;  where  the  supreme  musical  au- 
thority was  Reb  Yoshe  the  cantor,  who  knew 
how  to  bellow  like  an  ox,  and  bleat  like  a  goat, 
in  the  same  breath ;  who  had  a  way  of  changing 
his  voice  from  basso  to  soprano,  from  tenor  to 
[127] 


Contrite  Hearts 


alto,  while  the  congregation,  with  closed  eyes 
and  open-mouthed,  listened  in  sweet  forgetful- 
ness,  thinking  that  they  heard  the  voices  of 
choristers  singing  just  like  the  Levites  in  the 
days  of  the  temple. 

Saul  felt  as  if  each  puff  of  the  Golubchik 
brought  him  ever  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
promised  land,  where  fame  and  happiness  were 
awaiting  him.  He  inhaled  the  fresh  air  deeply, 
and  kept  gazing  at  the  seething  waters  below. 

The  thought  of  his  love  affair  lit  up  his  coun- 
tenance with  pride. 

"Saul  never  does  things  as  Izele,  the  confec- 
tioner's; or  as  Sholemke,  the  fisherwoman's ;  or 
as  Leizerke,  the  upholsterer's!  Saul  is  an 
artist!"  he  said  to  himself,  with  intense  satis- 
faction. 

For  a  moment  his  thoughts  wandered  off  to 
his  father,  whose  sternness  had  turned  within 
the  past  few  hours  into  despair.  Saul  saw  him 
pale-faced,  at  once  furious  and  helpless,  alone, 
bereft  of  both  sons.  His  heart  sank,  and  for  a 
moment,  stricken  with  shame  and  remorse,  he 
felt  like  returning,  like  falling  on  his  knees 
before  the  old  man,  begging  his  forgiveness, 
[128] 


The  Elopement 


embracing  and  kissing  him.  But  the  steamer 
panted  and  puffed  on,  and  something  told  Saul 
that  he  would  never  again  look  upon  his  father's 
face. 

As  was  his  wont  in  moments  of  intense  agita- 
tion, he  seized  his  violin,  which  he  always  carried 
with  him,  and  began  to  play  the  "Legend." 
The  passengers  on  deck  turned  toward  the 
player  and  listened  amid  profound  silence. 
Soon  a  peasant  began  to  play  his  accordion 
noisily,  while  a  long-haired  Russian  merchant, 
red-faced,  with  bloodshot  eyes,  and  a  prominent 
paunch,  surveyed  Saul  from  head  to  foot,  and, 
advancing  toward  him,  waving  his  hands, 
started  to  sing  in  a  hoarse,  drunken  voice: 

"Ya  zhidochek  smirnenky."  (I  am  a  peace- 
ful little  Jew.) 

But  Saul  eyed  him  steadfastly,  and  played  on. 
And  the  tune  trembled  with  a  certain  fascinating 
charm  and  melodious  sadness. 

All  became  quiet.  Slowly  the  listeners  drew 
closer  to  the  violinist,  and  when  Saul  finished 
playing,  the  merchant  walked  over  to  him,  and, 
clapping  him  on  the  shoulder,  exclaimed, 
ecstatically: 

[129] 


Contrite  Hearts 


"Molodetz1!    Ha,  ha,  ha!    Mo-lo-detz!" 

"Molodetz!"  shouted  others  in  the  crowd. 

Just  then  Miriam  came  out  on  deck.  Her 
eyes  were  full  of  languor  and  melancholy,  and 
the  features  of  her  face  betrayed  an  inward 
struggle. 

While  sitting  down-stairs  in  the  cabin,  for  fear 
lest  some  acquaintance  of  hers  might  see  her  in 
Saul's  company,  she  whiled  the  time  away  by 
reading  Bogrov's  "Memoirs  of  a  Jew."  But 
she  had  to  close  the  book  every  now  and  then. 
The  image  of  her  parents  rose  before  her  eyes, 
their  sobs  and  waitings  rang  in  her  ears.  She 
hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  the  tears  trickled 
down  upon  the  volume  which  lay  in  her  lap. 

Sometimes  Ephraim  would  flit  by  in  her 
imagination,  the  chaste,  the  kind-hearted,  the 
gentle  Ephraim,  and  a  shudder  shot  through 
her  frame.  Then  her  thoughts  drifted  to  Saul. 
She  recalled  his  round-shouldered  figure,  his 
long,  aquiline  nose,  the  wart  on  his  high  fore- 
head —  and  a  sense  of  disgust  came  over  her. 

But  no  sooner  did  she  hear  him  play  "The 
Legend,"  than  a  different  Saul  sprang  up  before 

1  Good  boy! 


The  Elopement 


her  —  a  poet,  a  dreamer,  with  dark,  glittering, 
mesmeric  eyes,  which  held  her  under  a  certain 
irresistible  spell. 

She  put  the  book  aside,  and  came  out  on  deck. 
It  was  midnight.  The  sky  looked  like  a  huge 
carpet  of  deep  blue,  fastened  by  myriads  of 
sparkling  diamond  tags. 

Saul  and  Miriam  sat  up  all  night.  He  spoke 
to  her  of  his  violin,  of  music;  how  it  purifies  the 
heart  and  elevates  the  mind.  Nestling  close  to 
his  breast,  with  her  eyes  closed,  she  listened  to 
his  soft  voice,  which  blended  with  the  lullaby 
of  the  splashing  waters  below. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  AWAKENING  OF  MIRIAM 

WITHIN  two  years  Saul  Granat  became  a 
popular  violinist,  and  the  "aristocrats"  of  the 
Ghetto  threw  their  doors  open  to  welcome  their 
gifted  co-religionist  and  countryman,  who  be- 
came intoxicated  with  the  suddenness  of  his 
success,  and  filled  with  a  sense  of  haughty 
superiority.  In  his  triumph  his  bearing  toward 
Miriam  grew  colder  from  day  to  day.  His 
vehement  nature  craved  excitement,  ever  new 
sensations,  foaming  life  —  while  Miriam  was 
now  forever  melancholy,  indifferent,  almost 
lifeless.  So  Saul  strayed  after  other  gods, 
seeking  pleasure  outside  of  his  home. 

Upon  their  arrival  in  New  York,  Miriam  and 
Saul  spoke  of  marrying  according  to  the  law  of 
Moses  and  Israel,  but  Saul  declared  that  such 
a  step,  before  his  reputation  was  firmly  estab- 
lished, would  simply  make  an  end  to  all  his 
opportunities,  would  block  his  road  to  success. 


The  Awakening  of  Miriam 


"Wait,  Miriam,"  he  often  told  her;  "let  me 
attain  my  aim,  and  we  shall  make  a  wed- 
ding the  like  of  which  the  world  has  never 
seen." 

And  Miriam  waited,  suffering  in  silent  resig- 
nation. 

One  night  Saul  returned  home  very  late  from 
a  musicale  given  by  an  East  Side  physician. 
Miriam  was  waiting  for  him,  seated  in  the  rock- 
ing chair,  reading  one  of  Turgenev's  novels. 
A  brisk  autumn  wind  tossed  her  hair,  her  cheeks 
were  yellowish  pale,  her  eyes  bore  traces  of  tears 
and  sleeplessness.  Miriam  closed  the  book 
when  Saul  entered  the  room. 

"Well,  how  was  it?"  she  inquired,  gazing  up 
to  him  with  animation. 

"Why  do  you  ask  me?  If  you  really  cared 
to  know,  you  would  have  been  there,"  he  re- 
torted angrily,  as  he  put  away  his  violin  on  the 
piano,  and  removed  his  overcoat. 

"But  I  told  you  I  didn't  feel  well,"  said 
Miriam,  apologetically. 

Saul  shrugged  his  shoulders  impatiently. 

"Oh,  you  never  feel  well  of  late,"  he  mut- 
tered, "you  bore  me  with  your  —  with  your  — 


Contrite  Hearts 


sadness;  you  must  have  been  sipping  those 
sentimental  books  of  yours." 

Miriam  sprang  to  her  feet.  Her  pale  cheeks 
reddened,  the  pupils  of  her  eyes  widened  and 
flashed  defiance. 

"Saul,"  she  articulated,  regarding  him  fixedly, 
"you  know  why  I  didn't  go  to  the  doctor's  house 
—  I  hate  to  be  in  the  way!" 

"You  are  a  fool!"  blurted  out  the  violinist, 
turning  abruptly,  and  walked  into  his  room. 

Miriam  bit  her  quivering  lips,  as  if  thus  to 
hinder  her  bitter  heart  from  coming  out.  She 
opened  the  book,  seated  herself  in  the  rocking- 
chair,  trying  to  concentrate  her  mind  upon 
"  Rudin,"  but  she  could  not  read.  Her  thoughts 
swam ;  her  eyes  were  befogged ;  her  heart  worked 
with  difficulty,  like  a  pump  out  of  order;  some- 
thing was  choking  her  at  her  throat;  she  could 
not  draw  her  breath.  Miriam  sat  motionless 
for  a  while,  then  she  rose  slowly  from  her  seat, 
and  threw  herself  on  the  couch  near  by.  A  loud 
moan  broke  from  her  heart,  and  she  burst  into 
sobs. 

For  a  long  time  she  lay  awake,  staring  at  the 
ceiling.  Sad  thoughts  crawled,  one  after  another, 


The  Awakening  of  Miriam 


into  her  head,  and  her  bosom  heaved  nervously. 
When  sleep  overtook  her  at  last,  she  dreamed 
that  she  was  home  again,  in  Russia,  and  some 
one  was  playing  "The  Legend"  for  her.  She 
could  not  see  the  player,  but  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  music  that,  instead  of  soothing, 
irritated  her.  The  violin  screeched,  screeched 
unceasingly.  There  were  so  many  false,  jarring 
notes  in  the  tune  that  she  felt  she  was  going 
mad. 

On  the  next  day  Saul  spoke  but  little.  He 
replied  to  Miriam's  questions  rudely,  unwill- 
ingly, irrationally.  After  dinner  he  said  to  her: 

"Assort  my  things,  and  I'll  pack  them.  I 
am  going  to  move  — 

"You?"  she  asked,  in  astonishment.  "And 
I?" 

"You  will  stay  here.  It  is  better  that  we 
shall  not  see  each  other  for  about  a  month. 
Something  is  wrong  with  us,  and  time  alone  can 
set  it  right.  I  am  tired  of  these  arguments," 
he  said,  quickly,  without  looking  at  her. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Miriam,  with  a 
forced  smile,  trying  to  appear  calm;  but  the 
muscles  of  her  face  betrayed  agitation. 


Contrite  Hearts 


"It  will  be  better  for  us  to  part  for  a  month 
or  so.  These  misunderstandings  between  us, 
I  cannot  bear  them !  And  then,  perhaps  — 

"Saul!"  she  interrupted  him.  Her  eyes  be- 
gan to  flash.  She  straightened  herself  and  eyed 
him  closely.  "Saul,  you  are  a  coward!  Yes,  a 
petty  coward  and  a  liar!"  Her  words  were 
loud  and  clear.  He  flushed,  wriggled  about 
uneasily,  and,  pointing  toward  the  door,  said 
beseechingly: 

"Miriam,  some  one  may  hear  us — " 

"You  want  to  marry  the  physician's  daugh- 
ter," went  on  Miriam,  paying  no  heed  to  his 
words.  "Well,  go  ahead!  Nobody  is  in  your 
way.  You  are  an  artist  —  you  may  do  what- 
ever you  please  —  no  apologies  are  required. 
A  rich  physician's  daughter  is  not  a  bad  propo- 
sition. Saul,  let  me  congratulate  you;  you've 
become  a  rather  practical  business  man  for  an 
artist."  And  she  began  to  laugh  nervously. 

Saul  looked  like  a  schoolboy  caught,  red- 
handed,  in  the  act  of  committing  a  crime.  His 
face  turned  pale.  Suddenly  he  made  a  few 
steps  forward,  and,  embracing  Miriam,  kissing 
her  hands,  mumbled  confusedly: 


The  Awakening  of  Miriam 


"  It  is  not  true,  I  swear  to  you  —  it  is  not  true, 
by  God,  it  isn't—" 

Miriam  tore  herself  away  from  him. 

"True  or  not  true,  it  is  immaterial  to  me!" 
she  said,  with  determination.  "  Henceforth  we 
shall  be  strangers.  Enough!  God  knows  I 
have  had  enough  of  your  art." 

On  that  day  Miriam  hired  a  room  in  the  home 
of  a  Russian  Jewish  family,  and  the  next 
morning  she  joined  the  army  of  working  girls. 


Iwl 


CHAPTER  VII 

EPHRAIM'S  RETURN 

ON  his  return  home  from  the  Caucasus, 
Ephraim  Granat  found  gloom  and  desolation 
where  joy  and  happiness  and  love  had  been. 
His  father's  house,  perched  upon  the  little  hill 
overlooking  the  Dniepr  on  one  side,  and  the 
governor's  park  on  the  other,  seemed  as  if  bent 
down  with  grief  for  its  late  master,  Mordecai 
Granat.  The  two-story  structure,  with  its  dark, 
unpainted  beams  and  shingles,  the  closed  shut- 
ters and  the  broken  fence,  produced  a  dreary 
impression  upon  Ephraim.  His  heart  con- 
tracted with  painful  emotions  as  he  walked  up 
the  familiar  path  leading  to  the  garden.  At  the 
entrance  he  paused,  leaning  his  arm  on  the 
wooden  gate.  The  trees,  the  bushes,  the  little 
arbor,  thickly  overgrown  with  verdure,  the  bench 
beneath  the  drooping  willow,  a  little  distance 
away,— all,  all  were  the  same  as  he  had  left 


Ephraim's  Return 


them.  Tears  gathered  in  his  eyes.  He  turned 
about  and  gazed  at  the  house  again.  One 
of  the  shutters  of  the  garret  was  half  open. 
Ephraim  recalled  that,  less  than  four  years 
ago,  when  he  had  marched  past  the  house,  to- 
gether with  the  other  recruits,  his  brother  Saul 
stood  there,  by  the  same  window,  and  waved  the 
violin,  bidding  him  farewell.  Ephraim  remem- 
bered the  scene  distinctly.  His  father  stood  in 
the  gateway,  tall,  broad-shouldered,  with  long, 
white  locks  hanging  down  from  under  his  broad- 
brimmed,  soft  hat.  He  stood  erect,  seemingly 
unmoved;  but  when  Ephraim  had  cast  a  look 
backward,  he  saw  the  old  man's  face  turned 
toward  the  wall.  Near  his  father  stood  Miriam. 
He  remembered  how  she  waved  the  handker- 
chief for  a  long  time,  and,  after  sending  him  a 
farewell  kiss,  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  While 
he,  Ephraim,  trying  to  smile,  to  appear  calm, 
walked  stoutly,  his  chest  thrown  out  forward, 
his  arms  swinging  in  soldier  fashion.  Saul,  in  his 
room  in  the  garret,  was  playing  "The  Legend." 
And  as  the  melody  grew  fainter,  Ephraim 's 
heart  grew  heavier,  till  he  could  no  longer  re- 
press the  tears  which  were  choking  him  all  along. 
[139] 


Contrite  Hearts 


Now,  as  he  gazed  at  the  garret  window,  a 
sense  of  profound  melancholy  took  possession 
of  him.  He  felt  that  he  was  all  alone,  without 
love,  without  home,  without  hope. 

The  clear  sky  and  the  fragrant  air  intensified 
his  heaviness  of  heart.  Somehow,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  Fate,  having  crushed  him  with  her 
cruelties,  was  now  mocking  him. 

Crestfallen,  he  turned  hastily,  and,  descending 
the  path,  found  himself  on  the  board-walk  of 
the  street.  It  was  about  seven  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  The  town  was  coming  to  life  again, 
after  its  night's  rest.  The  shutters  of  the 
houses  were  thrown  open ;  the  storekeepers  were 
sweeping  the  sidewalks  in  front  of  their  stores, 
getting  ready  for  business;  the  stout,  broad- 
shouldered  cabmen  made  the  sign  of  the  cross 
as  they  stationed  themselves  on  the  square, 
prepared  for  the  day's  work.  Bearded  and  ear- 
locked  Jews  were  hastening  to  the  synagogues, 
carrying  their  prayer-shawls  and  phylacteries 
under  their  arms. 

Ephraim  walked  quickly,  paying  no  attention 
to  the  passers-by.  He  directed  his  steps  to  the 
Beth  Hamidrash. 

[140] 


Ephraim's  Return 


"Peace  be  with  you!"  Isser  the  sexton  greeted 
him  warmly.  ' '  How  are  you  ? ' ' 

"Peace  be  with  you!"  replied  Ephraim. 

Within  a  little  while  most  of  those  in  the  Beth 
Hamidrash  greeted  him,  wishing  him  peace,  and 
asking  after  his  health. 

Ephraim  then  stepped  aside  and,  stationing 
himself  in  his  father's  place,  leaned  his  right 
arm  against  the  wall,  closed  his  eyes,  and  prayed 
emotionally.  Before  leaving,  he  prayed,  in  a 
voice  quivering  with  tears,  for  the  repose  of  his 
father's  soul ;  and  the  people  behind  him  punc- 
tuated his  Kaddish  with  solemn,  long-drawn 
amens. 

While  he  was  folding  his  phylacteries  the 
congregation  broke  up  into  small  groups,  dis- 
cussing something  in  whispers.  Ephraim  felt 
that  they  were  speaking  of  him.  Soon  the  voice 
of  the  sexton  rose  above  the  whispering  voices 
of  the  others.  Ephraim  heard  the  sexton  say, 
with  a  sigh: 

"What  four  years  can  bring  to  a  man!  It 
wasn't  enough  that  his  brother  ran  off  with  his 
bride,  so  Reb  Mordecai,  peace  be  with  him,  had 
to  pass  away.  Now  they  say  the  fiddler  is 


Contrite  Hearts 


about  to  marry  a  rich  physician's  daughter  over 
there.  A  lively  world,  this!" 

"May  his  heart  be  fiddling  so  that  no  physi- 
cian should  be  able  to  help  him!"  interposed 
some  one,  in  a  deep  basso. 

Ephraim  left  the  synagogue,  depressed,  filled 
with  painful  thoughts.  And  his  heart  was  sud- 
denly seized  with  anxiety  to  run  from  these 
surroundings,  amidst  which  he  felt  himself  as 
desolate  as  a  rock. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  SHATTERED  NEST 

IN  the  afternoon  he  went  to  see  the  Lamperts. 

A  queer  sensation  came  over  him  when  he 
entered  the  vestibule.  Recollections  of  Miriam, 
of  his  dreams  of  happiness,  rushed  upon  him; 
and  he  felt  as  though  he  was  nearing  a  cemetery 
where  the  remains  of  his  dearest  friend  reposed. 
Though  everything  seemed  unchanged,  out- 
wardly, he  now  realized  that  the  ties  which  had 
united  him  with  these  surroundings  were  broken. 

His  heart  stood  still  as  he  touched  the  door- 
knob. For  a  moment  a  thought  flashed  through 
his  mind  that  it  was  better  to  return  without 
seeing  them,  lest  his  coming  might  reopen  their 
old  wounds.  But  his  yearning  to  see  these 
people  of  boundless  faith  and  uprightness,  whom 
he  loved  and  respected,  conquered  him,  and  he 
entered. 

Isroel  rose  from  his  seat  by  the  table,  around 
[143] 


Contrite  Hearts 


which  sat  a  dozen  boys  studying  Isaiah.  The 
cantor  had  become  old  during  the  four  years 
of  Ephraim's  absence.  His  hair  was  streaked 
with  gray,  his  figure  was  bent  still  more,  and  he 
wore  spectacles. 

"Ephraim!"  he  uttered,  overwhelmed  with 
emotion. 

"Sholem  aleichem,  Reb  Isroel!  How  are  you 
all?"  Ephraim  greeted  him,  shaking  his  hand. 

' '  You  had  better  not  ask .  Troubles,  troubles — 
a  sea  of  troubles.  New  ones  every  day,"  said 
the  cantor,  adjusting  his  skull-cap,  and  button- 
ing his  vest.  Then  he  waved  his  hand  and 
added,  with  a  sigh:  "But  who  of  us  has  no 
troubles?" 

"Itchke!"  he  suddenly  cried,  addressing  one 
of  the  boys  at  the  table.  "Stop  making  that 
noise !  Look  over  the  next  chapter  meanwhile ! ' ' 

Isroel  walked  over  to  the  bedroom  door,  and 
said: 

"Beile  Reize,  do  you  know  who  is  here? 
Ephraim!" 

Beile  Reize  shuddered. 

"Ephraim,"  she  called,  "Ephraim.  Ask  him 
to  come  over." 


The  Shattered  Nest 


Isroel  took  the  young  man  by  the  arm  and 
pointed  at  Beile  Reize. 

"See  what  has  become  of  her.  That  night, 
when  —  you  know,  —  your  father,  peace  be 
with  him,  wrote  you,  —  that  night  she  lost  her 
eyesight.  And  now  she  is  paralyzed." 

Ephraim  lowered  his  eyes,  unable  to  speak. 
The  sight  of  the  helpless  woman  unmanned  him. 

"Ephraim,"  she  called  faintly,  "come  nearer 
to  me.  How  are  you,  my  child?" 

Ephraim  advanced  a  few  steps  toward  the 
bed. 

"God  has  punished  us  all."  The  blind 
woman's  face,  emaciated,  pale,  contracted 
convulsively  as  she  added: 

"Nu,  we  are  suffering  in  this  world,  therefore 
it  will  be  better  for  us  in  the  other  world!" 

"Isroel,"  she  begged  suddenly,  "make  them 
to  keep  quiet  there.  The  '  murderers '  don't  let 
me  live." 

Isroel  removed  his  leather  belt,  turned  around, 
thrust  his  head  out  of  the  door,  and  cried, 
shaking  the  belt: 

"Itchke!  Shleimke!  Gershke!  Ska  I  Let 
there  be  silence!" 

[i4S] 


Contrite  Hearts 


The  "murderers"  fell  silent  for  awhile. 

"When  they  begin  to  make  noise  I  feel  as  if 
a  company  of  soldiers  were  marching  through 
my  head,"  complained  Beile  Reize.  "Yes,  the 
Uppermost  has  punished  us  all." 

Ephraim's  heart  was  overflowing  with  bitter- 
ness. 

' '  The  Uppermost !  the  Uppermost !  Where  is 
the  justice  of  punishing  such  people  as  you  are  ? 
Of  making  you  suffer?" 

"Do  not  speak  like  this,"  said  Beile  Reize, 
endeavoring  in  vain  to  lift  herself. 

"Ephraim,  no  man  knows  the  ways  of  the 
Lord,"  declared  Isroel. 

"No  man  knows  the  ways  of  the  Uppermost," 
repeated  Beile  Reize. 

Silence  reigned  for  several  minutes.  Sud- 
denly a  moan  came  from  the  corner  of  the 
room. 

"What  is  it,  Yosele?"  inquired  the  father. 

"Nothing,"  replied  the  boy. 

Ephraim  glanced  toward  the  direction  where 
the  boy  lay,  —  a  picture  of  suffering.  His 
cheeks  were  yellow,  sunken  in,  his  eyes  mirrored 
fright  and  acute  pain. 

[146] 


The  Shattered  Nest 


"What  is  the  matter  with  Yosele?"  asked 
Ephraim. 

Isroel  shook  his  head. 

"Eh,  what  do  you  know?  It's  terrible,  terri- 
ble! Where  is  one  to  take  strength  to  bear  all 
this  ?  '  The  waters  have  reached  unto  the  head.' 
A  child  —  an  innocent  child  —  he  does  not 
touch  a  fly  on  the  wall.  He  goes  his  way,  inter- 
feres with  no  one,  and  thanks  God  if  he  is  let 
alone.  He  goes  to  Shule  with  a  prayer-book  in 
his  hand.  Comes  a  band  of  Gentile  boys  — 
attacks  him  with  canes  —  and  breaks  his  leg  — 
makes  him  a  cripple  for  life.  To-day  is  just 
six  weeks  since  he  was  laid  up  in  bed." 

"  It  is  terrible ! ' '  exclaimed  Ephraim .  ' '  Such 
a  young  child  already  suffering  because  he  is  a 
Jew.  A  thing  like  this  can  drive  one  mad! 
When  I  see  a  child  suffering,  an  innocent  child 
who  can  do  no  wrong,  it  breaks  my  heart.  It 
seems  to  me  that  the  sight  of  a  child  suffering 
makes  more  non-believers  than  all  the  books 
that  have  been  written  against  religion." 

"Ephraim,  speak  not  like  this.  It  is  a  sin. 
The  ways  of  the  Lord  are  a  mystery  to  us," 
said  the  cantor. 


Contrite  Hearts 


"Perhaps  it  is  better  that  we  should  suffer 
here,"  put  in  Beile  Reize,  her  half-open  eyes 
glassy,  expressionless,  her  face  almost  lifeless. 
"Our  life  on  earth  is  short.  Sixty  years  — 
seventy.  But  there  —  in  the  World  of  Truth  — 
where  our  souls  will  rest  until  the  resurrection 
of  the  dead  —  there  we  will  therefore  be  free 
from  suffering." 

The  sincerity  and  resignation  with  which  the 
blind  woman  uttered  these  words  awed  Ephraim 
into  silence. 

"Come  into  the  other  room;  we'll  drink  a 
glass  of  tea,"  Isroel  suggested  after  a  while. 

They  seated  themselves  by  the  table,  and 
while  Zipke  prepared  the  samovar  they  discussed 
various  matters,  but  the  subject  nearest  to  their 
hearts  —  Miriam  —  was  not  even  mentioned. 

Suddenly  Ephraim  asked : 

"Have  you  received  any  letters  from  Mendel 
lately?  How  does  he  fare  in  America?" 

"Thank  God,  thank  God,"  replied  Isroel. 
"We  get  letters  from  him  every  two  —  three 
weeks.  He  works  hard  there.  Before,  he 
worked  at  the  machine.  Now  he  has  learned 
cutting  and  designing  cloaks.  Thank  God,  he 
[148] 


The  Shattered  Nest 


is  satisfied,  he  writes.  He  has  even  sent  us 
some  money  for  the  holidays.  Would  that  all 
Jewish  children  were  like  Mendel." 

"Do  you  know,  Reb  Isroel,  it  may  be  that  I 
will  meet  him  before  long,"  said  Ephraim. 

"Why,  do  you  intend  to  go  to  America?" 

"I  am  all  alone  here,  anyway.  Our  business 
has  gone  under  since  my  father  died.  I'll  sell 
the  house,  and  go.  Something  draws  me 
thither." 

"Nu,  may  God  grant  you  luck.  Mendel  has 
written  to  us  several  times,  begging  us  to  come 
there,  too.  He  wants  to  send  us  steamship 
tickets,  but  how  can  we  go?  Beile  Reize  — 
Yosele" — he  pointed  toward  the  bedroom,  and 
heaved  a  sigh.  "It  is  evidently  decreed  that 
our  bones  shall  remain  here.  Reb  Naphtoli, 
Mendel's  father,  may  go  soon,  however.  He 
is  anxious  to  see  his  son." 

They  drank  tea,  and  Isroel  read  aloud  some 
of  Mendel's  letters. 

Before  Ephraim  departed,  Beile  Reize  blessed 
him,  laying  her  hands  on  his  head,  mumbling 
inaudibly. 

When  the  boys  in  the  adjoining  room  noticed 
[149] 


Contrite  Hearts 


Ephraim  bending  over  the  blind  woman,  they 
burst  into  laughter.  Beile  Reize  shuddered, 
and  said  in  a  quivering  voice: 

"Children,  do  not  laugh  at  a  blessing!    Do 
not  laugh  at  a  blessing!" 


PART  in 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  SHOP 

FROM  a  life  of  misery  Miriam  plunged 
into  a  life  of  toil.     She  suddenly  found 
herself  transformed  into  a  new  being, 
self-possessed,  —  resolved  to  blot  Saul  out  of 
her  memory,  to  start  life  anew. 

It  was  during  the  busy  season  that  she  had 
looked  for  work,  and  she  experienced  but  little 
difficulty  in  securing  it  as  a  week  hand  at  ladies' 
neckwear  in  a  large  establishment  on  Broadway. 
At  first  her  work  did  not  come  out  satisfactorily; 
she  had  to  rip  it  over  and  over  again,  and  as  the 
girls  are  seldom  kind  to  new  hands,  Miriam 
frequently  went  home  in  the  evening  down- 
hearted, disappointed.  But  before  six  months 
had  elapsed  she  mastered  the  work  so  well  that 
she  became  a  "sample"  hand.  By  this  time 
Miriam's  life  blended  with  the  life  of  the  work- 
ing-girls, she  shared  their  tears  and  sorrows,  their 
laughter  and  their  joys. 

[i53] 


Contrite  Hearts 


Amidst  the  roaring  of  the  machines,  tragedies 
were  sometimes  revealed  to  Miriam  by  her 
shop  mates,  —  tragedies  beside  which  her  own 
troubles  seemed  as  naught.  Then  again  it  hap- 
pened that  tales  of  joy  enlivened  her  day's  work. 

About  her  on  all  sides  worked  upwards  of  a 
hundred  girls, — Russian,  Roumanian,  Austrian, 
German,  Irish,  Italian,  and  American  girls,  — 
girls  of  Jewish  faith,  Catholics  and  Protes- 
tants. There  were  some  old  maids  there  who 
hated  men  because  they  had  been  deceived  by 
them;  others  who  hated  men  because  they  had 
never  been  noticed  by  them.  Then  there  were 
still  others  of  whom  the  younger  girls  said  that 
an  hour  before  death  they  would  die  to  get 
married.  Most  of  these  were  sour,  melancholy, 
sickly,  pale-faced,  blear-eyed,  flat-chested. 

There  was  an  Italian  girl  near  Miriam,  who 
kept  inviting  her  to  her  wedding. 

"  Come,  I'll  give  you  a  good  time,"  she  begged. 
"You'll  get  the  sandwiches,  the  apples,  the 
bananas,  the  cakes,  the  beer,  —  all  for  nothing. 
No  charge.  You'll  see  my  man.  Nice  curly 
hair,  big  mustache.  Come,  Miriam.  All  for 
nothing." 

f*54] 


The  Shop 


Right  opposite  Miriam  sat  a  girl,  about 
eighteen  years  of  age,  with  large,  dreamy  eyes, 
who  spent  her  evenings  in  reading  whatever 
came  her  way,  —  from  Shakespeare  to  the 
blood-and-thunder  dime  novels,  —  and  who 
dreamed  while  she  worked  of  marrying  an  old 
millionaire  who  would  die  an  hour  after  the 
wedding,  leaving  all  his  fortune  to  her. 

Next  to  her  sat  a  spectacled  hemstitcher 
whose  eyes  bore  an  expression  of  despair.  She 
had  been  engaged  three  times  within  two  years, 
—  three  times  all  the  shop  mates  had  kissed  her, 
wishing  her  good  luck,  and  three  times  she 
returned  and  cried  as  she  broke  to  them  the 
news  that  her  love  affairs  had  come  to  grief. 

There  were  girls  there  whose  earnings  con- 
stituted the  main  support  of  their  families; 
there  were  others  who  worked  just  for  their 
"pin-money";  there  were  widows  there  who 
toiled  that  their  sons  or  daughters  might  go  to 
college. 

And  as  Miriam  sat  among  these  workers  who 
stitched  their  dreams,  their  tears,  their  hopes 
into  the  fancy  collars  which  were  to  adorn 
perhaps  some  happy  women's  necks,  a  vast 


Contrite  Hearts 


panorama  of  a  hundred  little  worlds  unfolded 
before  her.  She  alone,  of  all  the  girls,  knew  the 
secrets  of  each  and  every  one  of  them.  In  her 
confided  the  light-minded  flirt  as  well  as  the 
grief-stricken  bearer  of  burdens;  for  they  all 
found  in  her  a  ready  listener,  a  comforter  in 
hours  of  sorrow,  a  counsellor  in  time  of  embar- 
rassment. And  she  often  forgot  herself  in  her 
surroundings. 

Sometimes  Miriam,  bending  over  the  ma- 
chine, her  hands  and  eyes  fixed  upon  her  work, 
would  start  one  of  her  father's  sad  Hebrew 
songs,  or  her  favorite  Russian  song,  "The 
Nightingale." 

"Why,  O  senseless  nightingale,  o'er  my 
window  dost  thou  sing?"  she  would  begin, 
plaintively.  "Knowest  not  that  in  this  house 
a  Jewess  dwells?  That  a  Jewess,  —  child  of 
want  and  persecution,  —  here,  in  painful  sorrow 
and  oblivion,  drags  the  yoke  of  life?  No,  not 
cheerful  notes,  but  wailings  in  my  ears  resound. 
Hush,  O  senseless  singer,  I  cannot  bear  thy 
songs." 

Her  voice  trembled  with  melodious  moaning 
which,  like  a  wounded  bird,  struggled  with  the 


The  Shop 


incessant  clatter  of  the  machines.  Now  some 
of  the  girls,  Christian  and  Jewish  alike,  —  even 
those  who  knew  not  the  meaning  of  the  words, 
—  caught  the  tune  and  hummed  with  Miriam, 
and  the  machines  shrieked  and  screeched  as  if 
to  deafen  the  wild  rhapsody  of  sighs  and  moans, 
striving  to  deaden,  as  it  were,  by  their  voices 
of  steel,  all  that  was  human  in  the  place,  or,  at 
least,  to  shut  out  from  the  outer  world  the 
tempest  of  passions  that  surged  within  the 
workers'  breasts. 

The  sadness  of  Miriam's  songs  often  drew 
tears  from  many  an  eye.  Sometimes  a  sob 
would  rend  the  air.  The  song  would  suddenly 
die  out,  —  the  wounded  bird,  as  it  were,  de- 
feated, was  powerless  to  keep  up  the  struggle 
with  the  ever  screaming  monsters. 

Sometimes  the  sob  came  from  a  girl  thinking 
of  her  dying  father  at  home ;  sometimes  from 
one  reflecting  the  lot  of  her  sister  who  had  been 
forsaken  by  her  husband ;  sometimes  it  was  from 
one  whose  thoughts  were  with  her  consumptive 
fiance. 

For  a  few  moments  two  or  three  machines 
would  stop,  and  soon  again  feet  pressed  the 
[i57] 


Contrite  Hearts 


treadles,  hands  straightened  the  fancy  collars, 
and  tear-stained  eyes  followed  the  stitches 
fixedly.  And  the  rattle  grew  louder  and  louder. 

Occasionally  the  sun  would  peep  out  for  a 
while  from  beyond  the  clouds,  —  a  cheerful 
note  would  disperse  the  depressing  gloom  in  the 
shop. 

The  announcement  of  an  engagement  of  one 
of  the  girls  marked  a  great  event  in  the  life  of 
her  shop  mates.  The  engagement  ring  was 
usually  passed  from  hand  to  hand,  and  by  the 
size  of  the  diamond  opinions  were  formed  and 
expressed  as  to  the  fiance's  financial  standing. 
Questions  were  heaped  upon  the  fortunate 
hand  as  to  his  appearance,  his  occupation, 
as  to  the  color  of  his  hair  and  eyes  and 
mustaches.  Frequently  most  of  these  things 
were  known  to  the  girls  much  in  advance  of  the 
announcement,  for  some  girls  delighted  in  re- 
lating the  development  of  their  love  affairs  day 
by  day. 

One  morning  the  spectacled  hemstitcher  who 
had  been  engaged  three  times  took  her  shop 
mates  by  surprise  by  announcing  to  them  that 
she  was  engaged  once  more,  and  to  substantiate 


The  Shop 


her  claim  she  produced  a  small  watch  presented 
to  her  by  her  young  man. 

"You  know,"  she  explained,  "I  received  a 
ring  each  time  before,  but  the  rings  always 
brought  me  bad  luck.  So  I  told  him  to  get  me 
a  watch  instead." 

Like  a  flash  of  lightning  the  news  spread  over 
the  place. 

* '  Malvina  is  engaged !  Malvina  is  engaged ! ' ' 
passed  from  mouth  to  mouth. 

"You  had  better  hurry  up  this  time!" 
"Whatever  you  do,  don't  delay  the  wedding," 
the  girls  advised  her. 

But  their  surprise  was  still  greater  when  she 
said  to  them,  choking  from  excess  of  emotion: 

"My  wedding  will  take  place  two  weeks  from 
to-morrow.  I  intended  to  work  another  week, 
but  Jake  begged  me  to  stop  to-day,  at  dinner 
time.  He'll  wait  for  me  down-stairs." 

"Then  you'll  leave  together  with  Carie!" 
exclaimed  several  hemstitchers.  "Wouldn't  we 
have  fun,  though!" 

Carie,  the  Italian  girl  near  Miriam,  was  a 
piece-worker,  and  she  came  in  this  morning  to 
finish  some  work  left  over  from  the  previous  day. 


Contrite  Hearts 


These  two  hands,  Malvina  and  Carie,  were 
the  center  of  attraction  during  the  forenoon. 
Everybody  watched  them,  winking,  smiling, 
occasionally  hurling  a  good-natured  jest  at  them. 

At  eleven  the  operators  and  the  finishers  made 
a  collection,  each  contributing  a  penny,  and 
sent  down  the  small  errand  girl  for  several 
pounds  of  rice.  A  heap  of  old  shoes  lay  in 
readiness  in  the  dressing-room. 

Intense  excitement  was  felt  in  the  atmosphere. 
The  girls  talked  as  they  worked,  laughed,  sang 
popular  songs. 

Behind  Miriam,  not  far  from  Malvina,  sat  an 
old  maid  who  bore  the  spectacled  hemstitcher  a 
grudge,  and  she  now  hastened  to  avail  herself 
of  the  last  opportunity  to  square  matters  with 
her. 

"Marriage,"  she  said  loudly,  to  her  neighbor, 
"is  like  getting  a  new  dress  —  the  most  inter- 
esting thing  about  it  is  that  you  build  castles  in 
the  air.  You  picture  to  yourself  how  beautiful 
it  will  all  be  —  the  changeable  silk,  the  lace- 
trimmed  yoke,  the  lace  collar.  And  when  you 
get  it  at  last,  you  are  usually  dissatisfied  with 
one  thing  or  another.  But  imagine,"  and  she 
[160] 


The  Shop 


winked  at  Malvina,  ' '  imagine  that  this  happens 
three  times  in  succession  —  and  you  can't  tell 
how  the  fourth  will  turn  out  " 

Miriam  regarded  her  reproachfully,  and  said : 

"  Annie,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  speak 
like  this  to  one  who  has  been  so  sadly  disap- 
pointed." 

At  this  moment  the  steam  was  shut  off.  A 
long-drawn  screech  announced  the  dinner  hour. 
Suddenly  all  began  to  bustle  about  hither  and 
thither.  The  two  brides  —  the  Jewish  hem- 
stitcher  and  the  Italian  finisher  —  went  from 
one  girl  to  the  other  and  kissed  them  all 
"Good-by."  All  misunderstandings,  all  petty 
quarrels,  all  hatreds  and  jealousies,  were  sud- 
denly forgotten.  The  brides  were  intoxicated 
with  happiness,  and  their  shop  mates,  infected 
by  this  happiness,  made  themselves  merry,  like 
small  children,  —  they  danced  and  jumped,  and 
sang,  and  giggled,  their  eyes  flashing,  their  faces 
aflush. 

Soon  the  elevator  stopped  in  order  to  take  the 
brides  away  from  the  place  where  more  than 
ten  years  of  their  life  had  been  spent. 

As  they  were  about  to  step  into  the  elevator, 
[161] 


Contrite  Hearts 


scores  of  old  shoes  were  thrown  at  them,  and 
rice  was  showered  upon  their  heads  from  all 
sides,  amidst  lively  exclamations  and  blessings. 

"Step  down  with  your  right  foot  first,"  cried 
several  girls. 

"  Don't  forget  to  come  up  to  my  wedding, 
Miriam,"  begged  the  Italian  girl,  from  the 
elevator. 

"All  right,  Carie,  I  will  come,"  replied 
Miriam. 

The  girls,  still  excited,  hastened  to  eat  their 
lunch,  after  which  they  were  again  to  "turn  the 
wheels," —  to  hem,  to  gather,  to  bind,  to  feather- 
stitch, and  to  scallop  the  fancy  ties  and  collars. 

Miriam  had  just  washed  her  hands  after  her 
lunch  and  was  about  to  sit  down  to  work,  when 
Rosie,  the  girl  with  the  dreamy  eyes,  ran  over 
to  her  and  said: 

"Miriam,  you  ought  to  see!  There  is  a  girl 
waiting  for  the  forelady,  —  looking  for  work,  I 
suppose,  —  just  the  image  of  you !  Like  two 
drops  of  water.  Only  she's  a  trifle  taller  than 
you." 

"Really?"  asked  Miriam,  indifferently.  Her 
mind  was  now  occupied  with  a  new,  very  com- 
[162] 


The  Shop 


plicated  sample  which  was  given  to  her  after 
the  other  'sample'  hand  had  tried  in  vain  to 
make  it. 

"I  am  telling  you,  —  she  looks  exactly  like 
you,"  persisted  Rosie.  "Her  eyes,  her  hair, 
her  nose,  her  mouth,  —  just  like  yours.  Come, 
you'll  see  for  yourself." 

Saying  this  she  dragged  Miriam  away  toward 
the  other  end  of  the  loft.  The  forelady  had  not 
yet  returned  from  her  lunch,  and  several  girls 
in  quest  of  work  were  waiting  for  her.  They 
sat,  without  speaking  to  one  another.  Some 
looked  over  the  morning  newspapers;  others 
were  absorbed  reading  paper-covered  novels; 
still  others  gazed  into  vacancy,  fatigued,  despond- 
ent. And  by  the  expression  of  their  eyes  it 
was  evident  that  they  had  walked  many  an  hour 
that  morning,  searching  for  work. 

"Look,  the  third  from  the  left,"  said  Rosie, 
pointing  with  her  finger  at  the  girls  seated  be- 
hind the  railing,  a  little  distance  away.  "Wait, 
she's  reading  a  newspaper  now,  —  she'll  look 
up  right  away." 

They  stood  a  while  arm  in  arm,  watching  the 
third  girl  from  the  left. 

[163] 


Contrite  Hearts 


Suddenly  Miriam  shuddered.  Her  head  re- 
clined on  Rosie's  shoulder,  she  uttered  a  moan, 
and  staggered,  about  to  faint. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?  Are  you 
sick?"  cried  Rosie,  frightened  by  the  expression 
of  Miriam's  pale  face. 

"Please,"  muttered  Miriam,  mastering  her- 
self somewhat,  "find  out  her  name." 

Rosie  rushed  away  around  the  railing,  while 
Miriam  remained  standing  near  the  forelady's 
table,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands,  waiting. 

Was  it  possible  that  her  eyes  did  not  deceive 
her,  she  wondered.  Her  heart  leaped  violently, 
and  she  breathed  with  difficulty,  as  if  something 
heavy  had  suddenly  struck  her  on  the  chest. 

Presently  she  heard  Rosie's  voice,  as  in  a 
dream : 

"Her  name  is  Esther  Lampert." 

Miriam  tossed  her  head  back,  turned  around, 
and  cried  in  a  dull  tone: 

"It  is  my  sister!" 

She  attempted  to  run,  but  her  head  fell  back, 
and  she  sank  down  on  the  low  table. 

When  she  opened  her  eyes,  Esther  was  bend- 
ing over  her.  For  a  moment  the  sisters  gazed 
[164] 


The  Shop 


at  each  other,  speechless;  then  Esther  clasped 
her  arms  about  Miriam's  neck  and  kissed  her. 
Both  wept.  Esther  released  her  grasp  for  a 
while,  retreated  a  step,  and,  surveying  her 
sister,  embraced  her  again,  mumbling: 

"Miriam,  how  you  have  changed!" 

Miriam  could  not  say  a  word,  while  Esther 
plied  her  with  questions: 

"How  do  you  come  here?  Are  they  all  in 
America  ?  How  are  they,  — -  father,  mother, 
the  children,  Mendel,  grandfather?" 

"Later  —  later,"  Miriam  blurted  out,  coming 
to  herself,  "I  have  many  things  to  tell  you." 


[165] 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  SISTERS 

IN  the  evening  of  that  same  day  Esther  re- 
moved her  trunk  to  Henry  Street  where  Miriam 
boarded  with  an  elderly  couple  who  had  seen 
better  days  in  Moscow,  whence  they  had  been 
driven  together  with  the  rest  of  their  unfortunate 
brethren.  Having  been  swept  off  their  feet  by 
the  ukase  of  the  Tsar,  they  followed  the  stream 
of  emigration  to  America.  Upon  their  arrival 
in  New  York,  they  started  in  the  jewelry  busi- 
ness, which  swallowed  their  capital  within  one 
year.  So  they  opened  a  private  restaurant  as 
a  last  resort  in  their  five-roomed  home.  The 
old  couple  worked  hard.  She  who  had  lived  in 
luxury  now  cooked  and  baked  for  others;  and 
her  husband  helped  her  set  the  table,  wash  the 
dishes,  scrub  the  floors,  wash  the  clothes.  It 
was  not  easy  for  the  old  man  to  reconcile  himself 
to  his  new  life.  He  often  sighed  and  grumbled 
[166] 


The  Sisters 


and  shed  tears  as  he  recalled  the  bygone  days; 
while  his  wife  bore  her  burdens  courageously 
and  cheerfully. 

"The  past  isn't  worth  a  blown-out  egg,"  she 
would  say.  "What  we  did  at  home,  how  we 
lived  there,  —  we  must  forget  all  this.  We 
must  drive  it  out  of  our  heads.  It  is  like  a 
dream.  This  is  America.  Everybody  works 
here.  Richer  Moscow  merchants  have  become 
here  pushcart  pedlers  on  Hester  street." 

Their  earnings  during  the  first  few  months 
were  so  scanty  that  they  hardly  covered  the 
rent,  —  and  they  were  compelled  to  take  in  two 
or  three  boarders.  It  was  then  that  Miriam 
made  her  home  with  them.  The  old  couple  at 
once  became  attached  to  her.  They  learned 
her  sad  history,  and  they  treated  her  with 
kindness,  as  if  she  were  their  own  daughter. 

"Would  that  the  enemies  of  Israel  were  as 
able  to  breathe  as  Miriam  is  able  to  work," 
said  the  old  man  one  evening;  "she  is  wasting 
away,  like  a  candle,  from  day  to  day." 

"It  is  not  from  work,"  replied  the  old  woman. 
"It  is  from  worry.  Is  it  a  trifle?  What  she 
has  lived  through  in  three  years!  It's  enough 
[167] 


Contrite  Hearts 


to  turn  one's  hair  gray.  Everybody  is  talking 
about  Saul  Granat  —  about  his  concerts;  about 
his  wedding.  Another  girl  would  have  dark- 
ened his  life,  would  have  sued  him  for  breach 
of  promise,  —  that  scoundrel.  But  Miriam 
weeps  only  when  no  one  sees  it." 

When  Miriam  and  Esther,  on  their  return 
from  the  shop,  sat  down  to  eat  their  supper, 
there  were  but  the  other  two  boarders  at  the 
table,  —  Hyman  the  operator,  and  Luria,  chair- 
man of  five  women's  lodges. 

Hyman  was  a  man  whose  age  and  whose  past 
no  one  knew.  He  was  clean-shaven,  his  hair 
was  parted  in  the  middle;  he  always  wore 
light,  checkered  trousers  and  patent  leather 
shoes.  He  spoke  little,  and  when  some  one 
asked  him  for  his  opinion  on  any  question,  he 
invariably  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  replied 
with  a  squeaking  laugh: 

"Eh,  whom  does  it  concern?" 

He  worked  at  men's  coats,  and  always  waited 
impatiently  for  a  strike  to  break  out  in  his  shop. 
Then  he  would  stay  at  home  and,  sitting  by  the 
window  for  hours,  sing  songs  which  he  had 
learned  at  the  Jewish  theater.  He  would  re- 
[168] 


The  Sisters 


turn  to  work  only  when  his  last  cent  gave 
out. 

Luria,  seated  at  the  other  end  of  the  table, 
was  about  seventy  years  of  age,  solidly  built, 
neatly  dressed.  His  snow-white  hair  was  care- 
fully combed  from  one  side  of  the  head  to  the 
other  to  cover  the  baldness  of  the  crown;  his 
beard  and  mustaches  were  trimmed  according 
to  the  latest  fashion.  Luria  was  very  particular 
about  his  appearance,  for  he  considered  it  essen- 
tial to  his  business.  At  the  women's  lodges, 
each  of  which  paid  him  from  fifty  to  seventy-five 
dollars  annually  for  conducting  their  meetings 
and  keeping  them  in  order,  he  had  to  be  impres- 
sive in  appearance  as  well  as  in  manner,  in 
order  to  succeed. 

He  now  smacked  his  lips  noisily  as  he  ate, 
and  kept  wiping  the  perspiration  off  his  face. 

"An  old  man  is  but  the  shadow  of  a  man," 
he  said,  adjusting  his  spectacles  and  regarding 
the  sisters  with  an  attempt  at  a  smile.  "An 
old  man  mimics,  —  he  smiles,  he  laughs,  but 
cannot  do  anything.  The  only  pleasure  left  to 
an  old  man  is  eating.  And  I  imagine  that  half 
the  taste  is  lost  when  you  try  to  be  polite  at 
[169] 


Contrite  Hearts 


table,  when  you  try  to  eat  without  making  any 
noise,  for  instance.  As  if  you  were  eating  merely 
to  please  others.  What  do  you  say,  Hyman?" 
The  old  man  turned  to  the  operator,  when  he 
noticed  that  the  sisters  did  not  seem  to  encour- 
age his  view. 

"Eh,  whom  does  it  concern?  I  eat  as  I 
please,"  replied  Hyman. 

The  old  man  resumed  his  meal,  smacking  his 
lips,  and  wiping  the  perspiration  from  his  face. 

Miriam  and  Esther  maintained  silence 
throughout  the  supper.  Each  thought  of  what 
the  other  had  gone  through  since  they  had 
parted.  They  were  still  as  dazed  by  the  sud- 
denness of  their  meeting  that  day. 

After  supper  they  hastened  into  their  room, 
and  spoke,  and  kissed,  and  wept  in  each  other's 
embrace. 

Esther's  story  was  brief,  but  laden  with  grief 
and  suffering  and  hardships.  From  Moghily6v 
she  went  with  Bobrovsky  to  Kharkov,  where 
they  led  a  life  of  terror,  of  sleepless  nights  and 
restless  days,  —  for  Bobrovsky  was  a  Nihilist. 
One  night  he  left  her  and  disappeared.  Later 
she  learned  that  he  was  seized  with  some  of 
[170] 


The  Sisters 


his  friends  while  carrying  on  revolutionary 
propaganda.  About  five  months  after  that 
word  reached  her  that  he  died  of  consumption 
while  on  the  way  to  Siberia. 

"You  see,"  said  Esther,  "it  was  not  love 
alone,  —  there  was  something  else  that  drew 
me  away  from  home.  There  was  the  fascina- 
tion of  some  great  ideal,  of  an  act  of  heroism 
which  had  turned  my  head.  When  I  looked 
at  Bobrovsky,  when  I  heard  him  speak,  when  I 
beheld  the  enthusiasm,  the  fire,  the  power  with 
which  he  discussed  his  ideals,  his  dreams,  his 
schemes,  —  I  felt  that  I  was  face  to  face  with 
the  savior  of  Russia, — with  the  savior  of  the 
downtrodden,  the  oppressed,  the  weak.  .  .  . 
Do  not  think  it  was  easy  for  me  to  tear 
myself  away  from  you  all.  My  heart  was 
bleeding,  but  I  was  carried  away  by  an  indefi- 
nite yearning  to  aid  a  great  cause,  —  I  felt  that 
I  must  make  a  sacrifice,  —  though  I  did  not 
quite  realize  what  it  was  that  I  wanted  to  see 
accomplished.  Yet  I  felt  that  I  must  show  my 
firmness  of  character,  my  power  of  will." 

"You  brought  misery  upon  our  poor  parents 
through  your  firmness  of  will,"  said  Miriam, 
[171] 


Contrite  Hearts 


mournfully,  "and  I  did  the  same  because  of 
the  weakness  of  my  character." 

"And  after  all"  —Esther's  voice  shook,  her 
head  bent  down,  and  she  added:  "After  all  I 
was  disillusioned.  I  learned  later  that  he  was 
not  the  idealist  he  claimed  to  be.  It  is  empty 
here"  —  she  struck  her  breast  —  "a  sepulcher 
where  my  dreams,  my  hopes,  are  buried.  Life 
has  driven  her  claws  into  them  and  has  crushed 
them." 

Esther  paused.  Outside  a  street  organ  was 
playing  from  "Traviata,"  and  the  plaintive 
notes  wafted  sadness  into  the  half  dark  room. 
The  sisters  sat  in  silence  for  some  time. 

Meanwhile  the  dining-room  became  enlivened 
by  those  who  patronized  the  Moscow  merchant's 
private  restaurant.  There  was  a  Russian  stu- 
dent, a  short,  stout,  pug-nosed,  bald-headed 
individual,  who  fairly  bristled  with  life,  who 
stood  up  for  Russian  education  and  Russian 
literature  with  the  zeal  of  a  fanatic.  Near  him 
sat  a  young,  pale,  large-eyed,  thin-faced  German, 
who  calmly  besprinkled  anything  and  every- 
thing with  pessimistic  remarks.  Next  came  a 
socialist  who  on  all  occasions  "quoted"  Karl 
[172] 


The  Sisters 


Marx,  without  ever  having  read  him.  Opposite 
the  Russian  student  sat  a  short,  dark  man,  with 
dark  eye-glasses  and  a  dark  suit  of  clothes,  who 
always  hummed  a  sad  melody  after  supper. 
Then  there  was  a  young  man,  with  large,  pro- 
truding cheek-bones  and  small  eyes,  who  had 
returned  from  America  to  Russia  to  serve  there 
in  the  army.  He  always  spoke  in  military 
terms. 

Some  one  said  something  about  dowries. 

"I  know  a  man  who  did  not  speak  to  his 
wife  for  thirty  years  just  because  he  had  been 
cheated  out  of  the  dowry  by  his  father-in-law," 
remarked  the  dark  man  with  the  dark  eye- 
glasses. 

"You  say  dowries  —  dowries,"  broke  in  Mr. 
Luria,  opening  his  toothless  mouth  in  an 
attempt  to  smile.  "When  I  was  twenty  years 
old  I  was  at  the  head  of  a  Talmudic  academy  in 
Minsk.  My  father-in-law  was  very  much  sat- 
isfied with  me.  He  promised  to  give  me  three 
hundred  rubles  on  the  day  of  my  wedding. 
In  those  days  three  hundred  rubles  was  money! 
Well,  to  make  it  short,  —  he  fooled  me.  Instead 
of  three  hundred  he  gave  me  fifty.  He  fooled 


Contrite  Hearts 


me  and  was  glad  that  he  struck  such  a  bargain. 
Just  think  of  it !  A  son-in-law  a  Rosh  Yeshivo ! 
And  for  nothing,  you  may  say.  But  the  plough 
struck  against  a  rock.  Rather  than  remain  the 
fool,  I  resolved  to  fool  him  —  to  let  him  know 
that  I  was  not  a  bargain  at  any  price,  that 
whatever  he  paid  was  overpaid.  I  closed  the 
Talmud  just  to  spite  him,  and  turned  to  com- 
merce." 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!  Is  it  possible  that  you  never 
look  into  the  Talmud  now?"  asked  the  Ger- 
man, slowly,  with  an  air  of  importance;  and 
everybody  knew  that  he  was  about  to  hit  off 
some  philosophical  remark.  But  Mr.  Luria 
never  gave  people  an  opportunity  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  him.  So,  fearing  lest  the  German 
should  somehow  slight  him,  he  hastened  to  say, 
with  feigned  seriousness: 

"I  need  not  study!  I  need  not  pray!  Does 
the  prayer-book  need  to  pray?  Does  the  Tal- 
mud need  to  study?  Ha,  ha,  ha!  I  am  the 
prayer-book!  I  am  the  Talmud!  I  know 
everything  by  heart." 

"The  old  man  is  all  right,"  exclaimed  the 
socialist,  while  the  others  laughed. 
[i74] 


The  Sisters 


Soon  the  conversation  turned  to  religion; 
from  religion  it  drifted  to  love. 

The  Russian  student  declared  that  love  was 
self -hypnotism,  while  the  German  argued  that 
there  was  no  such  a  feeling  as  love  at  all. 

Then  they  spoke  of  the  poverty  of  the  masses, 
of  Socialism,  of  degeneration,  of  hypocrisy. 

"You  say  socialism,  socialism,"  cried  Luria, 
hotly,  twisting  his  mustaches,  and  eying  the 
socialist;  "let  me  tell  you  what  happened  to  a 
socialist  'agitator'  I  know.  He  came  of  good 
orthodox  stock,  but  already  on  the  way  to 
America  he  shook  off  whatever  customs  and 
traditions  had  clung  to  him.  In  Germany  he 
dropped  his  phylacteries  and  'fringes/  and  left 
off  praying.  And  on  the  steamer  he  threw  his 
mother's  wig  into  the  ocean.  The  poor  old 
woman  was  on  the  verge  of  madness  over  the 
loss  of  her  only  wig.  But  the  son  mocked  the 
custom  of  wearing  wigs  as  an  Asiatic,  supersti- 
tious, bewhiskered  affair,  and  declared  that 
they  must  face  the  Statue  of  Liberty  as  free 
people,  —  free  from  absurd,  old-fashioned  cus- 
toms, —  and  there,  beyond  the  gates  of  Colum- 
bus, start  life  anew. 


Contrite  Hearts 


"He  soon  became  a  shirt-operator  and  then 
a  full-fledged  socialist.  During  political  cam- 
paigns he  went  about  spellbinding  crowds  on 
the  street  corners  by  telling  them  that  Karl 
Marx  was  their  Moses,  and  Lassale  their  modern 
Isaiah. 

"Thus  he  worked  by  day,  '  turning  the  wheel,' 
and  'agitated'  by  night,  dreaming  wild  dreams 
of  revolution  and  the  overthrow  of  the  present 
system.  Suddenly  a  change  came  over  the 
socialist,  —  a  complete  change.  A  dark-eyed, 
dimple-cheeked  girl,  his  shop  mate,  stirred  up 
new  emotions  in  his  breast. 

"Well,  to  make  it  short,  — one  evening  last 
week  he  donned  a  high  hat  and  a  hired  frock- 
coat;  his  everyday  red  tie  made  room  for  a  white 
cravat,  just  as  his  red-hot  socialist  principles 
paled  before  the  face  of  love.  As  soon  as  the 
reverend  pronounced  the  benediction  over  the 
wine,  the  socialist,  who  had  mocked  all  Jewish 
customs,  solemnly  placed  the  wedding  ring  upon 
the  bride's  finger,  saying:  'Thou  art  herewith 
consecrated  unto  me  according  to  the  law  of 
Moses  and  Israel.'" 

"It  must  have  been  a  Social  Democrat,  Mr. 


The  Sisters 


Luria.  It  couldn't  be  a  Socialist  Labor  Party 
man!"  exclaimed  the  socialist,  with  pathetic 
earnestness. 

Soon  Nietzsche  and  Schopenhauer  were 
dragged  into  the  conversation  by  the  German; 
the  Russian  swore  by  Tolstoy  and  Turgenev  and 
Chekhov  and  Gorky;  the  dark- spectacled  man 
sang  the  praises  of  Verdi  and  Meyerbeer  and 
Wieniawsky;  the  socialist  quoted  Marx;  Luria, 
the  chairman  of  the  women's  lodges,  argued 
that  the  stomach  ruled  the  mind,  that  dyspeptic 
philosophers  could  not  help  being  pessimists, 
and  that  to  be  an  optimist  one's  stomach  must 
be  in  perfect  order. 

In  the  corner  of  the  room,  near  the  ice-chest, 
stood  the  ex-soldier  and,  holding  Hyman  the 
operator  by  the  lapels  of  his  coat,  told  him  of 
his  experiences  in  the  army. 

"Now,  how  would  you  turn  if  I  commanded 
'Pravoye  ply  echo  vperyod!'"  suddenly  asked  the 
ex-soldier. 

"  Eh,  whom  does  it  concern  ?"  replied  Hyman, 
with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

And  the  once  prosperous  Moscow  merchant 
and  his  wife  ran  from  the  dining-room  to 


Contrite  Hearts 


the  kitchen,  and  back,  serving  tea  to  their 
customers. 

"I  was  disillusioned,"  repeated  Esther,  after 
a  prolonged  pause.  "How  much  better  was  it 
for  us  at  home,  before  we  knew  such  names  as 
Wieniawsky,  Schopenhauer,  or  Karl  Marx,  or 
Tchernishevsky,  or  the  other  names  of  which 
they  are  speaking  there  in  the  dining-room." 

Somehow  it  seemed  to  Esther  that  all  those 
in  the  adjoining  room,  who  voiced  lofty  senti- 
ments, who  philosophized  and  theorized  about 
the  betterment  of  humanity,  were  egoists  at  the 
bottom  of  their  hearts,  each  working  for  his 
own  good.  She  felt  that  in  leaving  her  home 
where  faith  in  God  reigned  supreme,  —  the 
faith  which  was  mocked  by  the  people  in  the 
adjoining  room,  —  she  had  left  behind  a  calm, 
crystal  stream,  and  found  herself  in  a  sea  of 
unrest,  alluring  from  afar  with  phosphoric 
brightness,  but  in  reality  turbulent  and  muddy. 

Both  sisters  sat  in  silence,  thinking  that  their 
lives  were  crippled  by  dreams  of  Art,  by  dreams 
of  bettering  the  world,  of  saving  humanity. 

In  the  dining-room  the  Russian  student 
suddenly  began  to  sing,  passionately: 


The  Sisters 


"Ochi  chornyia,  ochi  strastnyia,  ochi  zhguch- 
yia  e  prekrasnyia,  kak  lyublyu  ya  vas,  kak  boyus 
ya  vas" — 1 

The  street  organ  was  now  playing  on  the 
next  block,  and  in  the  distance  the  notes  from 
"Traviata''  sounded  more  mournful  than  before. 

The  sisters  sat,  with  bowed  heads,  speechless. 
Suddenly  Miriam  said: 

"Let  us  go  to  sleep,  Esther.  We  must  get 
up  early  to-morrow.  They  are  very  particular 
in  this  shop  that  the  hands  should  be  there  on 
time  in  the  morning." 

1  "Dark  eyes,  passionate  eyes,  burning,  beautiful  eyes,  —  how 
I  love  you,  how  I  fear  you  "  — 


[X79] 


CHAPTER  III 

IN  QUEST  OF  MIRIAM 

WHEN  Ephraim  Granat  landed  in  New  York, 
he  was  but  little  impressed  by  his  new  sur- 
roundings. The  thousands  of  push-carts  on  the 
streets  of  the  East  Side;  the  bearded  men  and 
bewigged  women,  swarming  about,  shouting  out 
their  several  wares  in  a  language  which  was  half 
foreign  to  him;  the  huge  tenement-houses;  the 
half  naked  children,  sweltering,  sleeping  here 
and  there  on  the  stoops  of  the  houses,  and  even 
on  the  sidewalks,  —  all  this  was  new  to  Ephraim, 
yet  he  paid  no  heed  to  it.  His  thoughts  were 
bent  on  learning  the  fate  of  Miriam.  He  was 
seized  with  an  irresistible  yearning  to  see  her, 
to  speak  to  her,  to  deliver  to  her  the  message 
from  her  dying  mother.  Not  that  he  was  eager 
merely  to  carry  out  the  last  wish  of  one  who 
departed  this  world,  but  he  felt  that  Beile 
Reize's  message  contained  sentiments  that 
throbbed  in  his  own  heart. 
[180] 


In  Quest  of  Miriam 


He  searched  for  Mendel  all  day  long,  but 
his  efforts  proved  fruitless,  for  Mendel  had  left 
New  York  a  few  weeks  before.  So  Ephraim 
directed  his  steps  to  the  synagogue  of  his  Ameri- 
canized townspeople,  in  the  hope  of  learning 
there  something  of  Miriam's  whereabouts.  But 
there  too  he  met  with  disappointment. 

On  the  next  day  be  chanced  upon  Meyer,  the 
commissioner,  who  used  to  go  to  Moscow  and 
to  Warsaw  as  a  buyer  for  Moghilyov  firms. 
Here  he  was  known  as  Mr.  Simkin  the  tea- 
pedler.  And  Mr.  Simkin  supplied  Ephraim 
the  longed-for  information. 

"The  Rubins  are  my  customers,"  he  told 
him,  proudly.  "They  keep  a  private  restau- 
rant. You  know  I  have  several  private  res- 
taurants for  my  customers.  One  day  I  brought 
them  tea.  We  began  to  talk.  Mr.  Rubin 
asked  me  what  part  of  Russia  I  came  from. 
I  told  him  I  came  from  Mohilev.  'From  Mo- 
hilev  ?  Then  you  know  perhaps  Miriam  Lam- 
pert,  the  cantor's  daughter  ? '  '  What  a  question ! ' 
said  I.  'Who  does  not  know  Reb  Isroel  the 
cantor's  daughter?  What  about  her?'  I  asked. 
'  She  boards  with  us,'  he  told  me.  And  how  he 
[181] 


Contrite  Hearts 


praised  her!  I  was  there  several  times  since 
then,  but  I  never  met  her,  because  I  usually 
come  around  that  neighborhood  in  the  daytime, 
and  she  is  working.  Now,  I  heard,  she  is  sick. 
They  say  that  she  is  suffering  from  terrible 
dreams;  that  she  always  hears  a  certain  piece  of 
music  in  her  dreams,  and  then  she  tears  her 
hair,  and  sobs."  The  tea-pedler  shook  his  head, 
and  added: 

"Your  brother,  the  fiddler,  the  infidel,  the 
pagan,  cares  not  a  pinch  of  snuff  for  her!  You 
have  come  just  in  time  for  his  wedding  —  may 
he  rather  wed  the  angel  of  death!  That  infidel, 
that  /m'/e-eater,  who  never  prays,  but  plays, 
that  is,  works,  on  the  Sabbath,  and  even  on 
Rosh  Hashonoh  and  Yom  Kippur." 

Ephraim  grew  impatient.  He  wanted  to  run 
to  Miriam,  but  the  tea-pedler  continued: 

"What  do  you  say  to  Mendel,  Reb  IsroePs 
brother-in-law?  Ah!  He  has  worked  himself 
up!  Don't  you  know?  He  worked  before  as 
a  plain  cloakmaker,  on  the  machine.  What 
trouble  he  had  in  the  beginning!  Every  bone 
in  his  body  ached  him.  His  fingers  were  sore. 
He  used  to  break  twenty  needles  a  day.  In- 
[182] 


In  Quest  of  Miriam 


deed,  how  does  a  young  man  like  Mendel  come 
to  work  on  a  machine  ?  But  need  breaks  iron. 
He  worked  hard,  like  an  ox ;  and  in  the  even- 
ing he  went  to  school  to  learn  English.  Ah! 
You  ought  to  hear  him  talk  English.  He  can 
even  make  a  fine  speech!  Well,  he  began  to 
save  money,  and  learned  cutting  and  designing. 
What  a  head  he  has!  Well,  now  a  rich  man 
took  him  as  a  partner  in  his  business.  In  Pitts- 
burg,  I  would  swear.  We  were  so  sorry  that  he 
left  New  York.  You  should  have  heard  him 
say  a  page  of  Mishnah  in  our  Beth  Hamidrash, 
or  a  piece  of  Midrash,  or  simply  translate  a 
chapter  of  Isaiah,  or  the  Song  of  Songs.  How 
sweet!  What  brilliant  ideas!  Our  congrega- 
tion—  that  is,  a  majority  of  votes  —  decided 
even  to  keep  him  by  the  year.  But  he  says  he 
does  not  want  to  make  any  money  from  the  To- 
rah.  Every  Saturday  afternoon  he  used  to  '  say ' 
something  in  our  Beth  Hamidrash.  And  he  never 
took  a  cent  from  us,  even  when  he  was  in  need 
at  first, — as  true  as  I  am  a  Jew.  A  young  man 
like  Mendel  is  a  blessing  to  God  and  to  man." 
"Do  you  think  Mendel  knows  where  Miriam 
lives?  Has  he  seen  her?"  asked  Ephraim. 
[183] 


Contrite  Hearts 


"  How  could  he  know  ?  The  Rubins  became 
my  customers  but  recently,  —  a  week  after 
Mendel  had  left  New  York,  and  I  was  going  to 
write  him  about  Miriam,  but  I  don't  know  his 
address." 

Ephraim  was  downcast  when  he  took  leave 
of  the  tea-pedler.  He  walked  briskly,  swaying 
his  hands,  and  now  and  then  stopping  to  inquire 
of  the  passers-by  how  to  reach  his  destination. 
He  turned  into  Henry  Street,  and  presently 
found  himself  at  the  door  behind  which  he  hoped 
to  find  Miriam.  His  heart  beat  violently  when 
he  knocked.  The  door  opened  slowly,  and 
Mrs.  Rubin  came  out.  Short  and  stout,  dark- 
complexioned,  her  spectacles  fastened  with  a 
string,  she  scrutinized  him  for  a  while  with  her 
dark,  shining  eyes. 

"Does  Miriam  —  Miriam  Lampert  live 
here?"  asked  Ephraim,  breathing  with  diffi- 
culty. 

"Yes;  she  lives  here,  but  she  is  sick  now  — 

"I  know.  Tell  her  that  Ephraim  Granat 
wishes  to  see  her." 

The  old  woman  opened  her  eyes  wide,  and 
stared  at  him  steadfastly. 
[184] 


In  Quest  of  Miriam 


"Ephraim  Granat?"  she  repeated.  "His 
brother?" 

Ephraim  nodded. 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head  knowingly, 
and  a  faint  smile  began  to  play  in  her  eyes,  and 
over  her  wrinkled  face.  Adjusting  the  spec- 
tacles on  her  nose,  she  walked  quickly  into  the 
adjoining  room. 

Ephraim  stood  on  the  threshold  and  listened. 
He  heard  the  old  woman  whispering  something ; 
then  a  brief  cry  reached  his  ears;  his  hands  and 
knees  trembled  as  he  waited  for  her  return. 

"Well?"  he  asked,  when  the  old  woman 
appeared.  She  merely  shook  her  head  mourn- 
fully. 

"Well,  what  did  she  say?  How  does  she 
feel?"  he  inquired  impatiently. 

"Miriam  cannot  see  you.     She  is  very  sick." 

Ephraim  stood  speechless  for  a  few  moments; 
his  face  was  pale,  and  his  large,  dark  eyes 
flashed. 

"Tell  her,"  he  said,  hotly,  "tell  her  that  I 
bear  her  no  grudge,  that  I  know  everything. 
Tell  her  that  I  have  come  to  help  her  if  I  can, 
if  she  will  only  let  me  do  it  — " 


Contrite  Hearts 


"Only  God  knows  how  she  is  suffering,  the 
poor  girl.  My  heart  weeps  within  me  whenever 
I  look  at  her,"  interposed  the  old  woman,  in  a 
low  voice,  casting  a  furtive  glance  at  the  door  of 
Miriam's  room.  Tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 

"And  tell  her,"  went  on  Ephraim,  in  a  broken 
voice,  "that  I  have  a  message  for  her  from 
home." 

When  he  paused,  it  seemed  to  him  that  some 
one  was  softly  sobbing  in  the  next  room.  He 
was  about  to  rush  past  the  old  woman,  into 
Miriam's  room,  but  he  controlled  himself. 

"Tell  her,"  he  said,  "that  I  will  come  up 
here  again  and  again  until  I  do  see  her." 

Ephraim  turned  and,  almost  running,  de- 
scended the  stab's.  The  old  woman  remained 
motionless;  then  she  shook  her  head  and 
shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"As  the  Russian  peasant  says,"  she  thought, 
"love  is  not  a  potato  —  you  cannot  throw  it 
out  of  the  window." 

When  she  opened  the  door  of  Miriam's  room, 
noiselessly,  she  found  the  girl  sobbing.  She 
turned  and  walked  away,  as  noiselessly  as  she 
had  entered. 

[1*6] 


In  Quest  of  Miriam 


Then  Miriam,  pale  as  death,  arose  from  the 
bed,  rushed  over  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 
In  her  excitement  she  even  forgot  that  her 
window  did  not  face  the  street.  Her  bosom 
heaved  and  contracted  with  pain.  Her  lips 
moved : 

"Ephraim!  Ephraim!"  she  muttered.  Her 
voice  was  faint,  almost  inaudible. 


[187] 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  BROTHERS 

EPHRAIM,  gasping  for  breath  and  struggling 
to  compose  himself,  hurried  down  the  staircase, 
and  paused  at  the  entrance.  His  bosom  heaved 
high,  his  face  was  aflame.  For  several  minutes 
he  stood  motionless.  Then,  suddenly,  he  tossed 
his  head  back  and,  clenching  his  fists,  resolutely 
started  off  with  rapid  steps  toward  East  Broad- 
way where  Saul  lived.  Now,  more  than  ever 
before,  the  wrongs  of  his  brother  thronged  in 
his  mind  with  crushing  pain.  In  his  ears  rang 
the  plaintive  sobbing  of  Miriam,  which  grew 
louder  and  louder,  and  seemed  as  though 
pleading  him  to  take  vengeance  on  Saul,  to 
humiliate  him,  to  cause  him  pain.  Ephraim 
ran  through  the  crowd  of  passers-by,  jostling 
them  like  a  madman,  now  swaying  his  hands 
violently,  now  clasping  his  head  for  fear  lest  it 
might  burst  at  any  moment. 
[188] 


The  Brothers 


"I  want  to  see  him!"  he  muttered  to  himself. 
"I  must!  I  must!" 

Just  what  he  would  do  or  say  to  Saul  he  could 
not  tell.  But  he  felt  that  it  would  be  something 
very  insulting,  very  painful. 

In  the  meantime  a  storm  was  gathering.  The 
air  was  heavy ;  a  brisk  wind  began  to  sweep  the 
dust  of  the  Ghetto  streets  into  the  faces  of 
hurrying  pedestrians,  and  flashes  of  lightning 
rent  the  sky  asunder  in  rapid  succession.  When 
Ephraim  reached  the  stairs  leading  to  Dr. 
Pindrik's  house,  a  protracted  crash  of  thunder 
resounded.  A  heavy  rain  began  to  fall,  and 
again  a  rattling  thunder  pealed.  Ephraim  ran 
up  the  staircase  and  forced  the  front  door 
open. 

The  servant  girl  jumped  up  from  the  bench 
in  the  hallway  and  asked: 

"You  want  the  doctor?" 

"No;  I  want  to  see  Saul  Granat,  the  fiddler," 
he  said,  straightening  himself  for  some  reason 
or  other.  "Is  he  here  now?" 

"You  can't  see  Mr.  Granat  now.  He's 
engaged  to-night  —  he's  playing." 

As  she  said  this,  Ephraim's  ears  caught  the 
[189] 


Contrite  Hearts 


sounds  of  a  familiar  melody.  He  paused,  as 
though  short  of  breath.  Yes,  it  was  his  brother 
playing  "The  Legend,"  —  the  same  he  had 
played  when  Ephraim  marched  past  his  father's 
house  with  the  company  of  recruits,  the  same 
melody  which  now  troubled  Miriam  so  often  in 
her  dreams. 

As  if  intoxicated,  without  saying  another 
word,  he  rushed  past  the  servant,  up  the  second 
staircase,  and  stopped  behind  the  door,  listening 
to  the  music.  All  was  silent,  save  the  violin 
which  seemed  to  choke  as  it  moaned  heavily. 
The  tones,  rich  and  sad,  filled  Ephraim  with 
emotion  which  he  was  powerless  to  restrain. 
He  thrust  the  door  wide  open  with  a  violent 
swing,  and,  deadly  pale,  with  his  fists  clenched 
tightly,  staggered  into  the  room.  The  violinist, 
bewildered,  broke  off  in  the  middle,  and  the 
audience,  composed  of  well-dressed  men  and 
women,  sprang  from  their  seats  in  wild  con- 
fusion. 

"Don't  be  afraid!"  cried  Ephraim,  advancing 
toward  Saul.  "I've  come  to  listen  to  your 
sweet  music !  That's  all  —  " 

"Ephraim!"  gasped  Saul,  clutching  the  violin 
[190] 


The  Brothers 


under  his  arm,  and  making  a  few  steps  to  meet 
his  brother. 

A  moment  of  silence  followed.  Ephraim, 
with  burning  face  and  flashing  eyes,  flourishing 
his  hands,  faced  the  frightened  men  and  women, 
who  retreated  to  the  doorway,  like  so  many 
lambs  huddled  together  in  time  of  storm.  Then 
he  resumed  in  a  firmer  voice: 

"Why  were  you  so  bewitched  by  his  violin? 
Its  tones  are  false.  They  lie.  They  express 
nothing.  They  hide  the  feelings  of  a  brute!" 

And  he  tore  the  violin  from  under  Saul's  arm 
and  struck  it  against  the  floor. 

"Now  talk  to  these  people!"  he  cried,  turning 
to  Saul.  "Now  draw  forth  tears  from  their 
eyes !  Where  now  is  your  voice  ?  Where  your 
eloquence?" 

Saul  sank  down  on  his  knees,  trying  to  grasp 
the  violin  from  Ephraim's  hands. 

"Don't  break  it!"  he  cried  in  despair, 
wringing  his  hands.  "For  God's  sake,  don't, 
Ephraim!" 

Ephraim  flourished  the  violin  in  the  air. 

"This,"  he  said,  "is  perhaps  the  only  thing 
on  earth  you  love.  Therefore  I'll  break  it  —  to 
[191] 


Contrite  Hearts 


cause  you  pain,  to  bleed  your  heart,  even  as  you 
have  bled  Miriam's  heart  and  mine.  You  have 
hastened  our  father's  death.  Wait!  —  if  there 
is  a  God  in  Heaven  —  wait!" 

Ephraim  kept  speaking  in  a  hoarse  voice. 
Suddenly  his  eyes  began  to  blink  rapidly; 
everything  became  dark  before  him;  his  head 
sank  back,  his  lips  moved,  murmuring  indis- 
tinct words.  In  his  ears  rang  loud  exclama- 
tions from  all  sides: 

"Who's  he?" 

"What  an  outrage!" 

"My  brother!" 

"He  must  be  crazy!" 

"Throw  him  out  of  the  house!" 

"Have  him  locked  up!" 

Presently,  Ephraim  was  dragged  down  the 
stairs.  When  he  found  himself  on  the  street, 
the  storm  was  still  raging.  At  first  he  did  not 
quite  realize  where  he  was,  what  he  had  done, 
whither  he  was  to  go.  But  the  strong,  piercing 
wind,  blowing  into  his  burning  face,  and  the 
repeated  thunder  peals,  soon  brought  him  to 
himself. 

[192] 


CHAPTER  V 

EPHRAIM  AND  MIRIAM 

ON  the  next  day,  toward  evening,  Ephraim 
went  to  make  another  attempt  to  see  Miriam. 
Last  night's  occurrence  at  the  doctor's  house 
calmed  him  somewhat.  He  felt  that  he  had 
struck  the  only  tender  spot  in  his  brother's 
heart,  and  he  was  satisfied. 

When  he  reached  the  tenement-house  where 
Miriam  lived,  some  ten  or  twelve  women  were 
seated  on  the  stoop,  gossiping  while  they  waited 
for  the  return  of  their  husbands  from  work. 
Scores  of  children  in  front  of  the  house  were  cry- 
ing, yelling,  laughing,  playing,  dancing,  singing. 

Now  a  consumptive-looking,  sharp-nosed, 
large-eyed  Galician  pedler,  with  a  red  little 
beard,  shouted  hoarsely: 

"Women,  women!  Bargains  in  pickles. 
Pickles,  women.  A  sale!  A  sale!  The  dear 
little  pickles  at  half  price." 


Contrite  Hearts 


Soon  his  push-cart  was  surrounded  by  women 
inspecting  the  bargains.  Some  of  those  that 
bought  the  pickled  cucumbers  ate  them  imme- 
diately; others  wrapped  them  in  their  aprons 
and  returned  to  the  stoop  to  resume  their  gossip 
and  to  wait  for  their  husbands.  Still  others 
gave  the  "pickles"  to  their  children. 

"Na,  Mosie,  catch  up  your  little  heart  with  a 
pickle,"  said  a  tall,  slim  young  woman  to  the 
little  boy  beside  her,  when  Ephraim  ascended 
cautiously  the  crowded  staircase. 

Mrs.  Rubin  opened  the  door  for  him,  and 
told  him  that  Miriam  felt  slightly  better  to-day, 
and  that  she  was  anxious  to  learn  the  news  from 
home.  She  asked  him  to  wait  awhile  in  the 
parlor,  and  went  into  Miriam's  room.  Pres- 
ently she  returned,  and  said,  with  a  smile : 

"You  may  walk  right  in." 

Ephraim  stood  awhile,  puzzled,  agitated, 
wondering  whether  he  should  hide  from  Miriam 
the  fact  of  her  mother's  death,  whether  he  should 
deliver  to  her  now  Beile  Reize's  last  message. 
And  before  he  knew  it,  he  turned  the  knob  and 
opened  the  door. 

Miriam  lay  on  the  bed,  her  head  resting  on 


Ephraim  and  Miriam 


her  arms,  her  hair  falling  playfully  on  her 
shoulders  in  curly  tufts.  Her  eyes  glistened 
strangely,  her  emaciated  face  reflected  acute 
suffering.  The  rays  of  the  setting  sun  had 
somehow  stolen  into  the  room  through  the 
air-shaft,  casting  the  picture  of  melancholy  into 
sharper  relief. 

Ephraim  rushed  over  to  Miriam  and  kissed 
her  on  the  forehead. 

"Miriam,"  he  whispered.  " Miriam.  You 
are  suffering.  O  God,  what  has  become  of 
you?" 

She  gazed  at  him  in  silence.  Her  eyes,  he 
noticed,  had  lost  some  of  their  tender,  caressing 
softness,  and  had  instead  a  melancholy,  yet 
resolute  expression. 

"Miriam,  why  do  you  look  at  me  like  this?" 
he  asked,  tearfully,  beseechingly,  caressing  her 
hair. 

The  girl  lay  speechless,  motionless.  Sud- 
denly she  shivered  and  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands. 

"Why  don't  you  reproach  me?"  she  cried,  in 
a  dull  voice.  "Why  don't  you  abuse  me? 
Why  don't  you  strike  me  ?  I  have  deserved  it." 
[i95l 


Contrite  Hearts 


"Calm  yourself,  Miriam,  calm  yourself," 
Ephraim  mumbled,  in  agitation,  stroking  her 
hair  with  trembling  fingers.  "Calm  yourself. 
Don't  think  of  this  now.  You  are  ill." 

"I  am  guilty,"  she  went  on,  breathing  heavily, 
her  eyes  now  fixed  upon  Ephraim,  "I  am  guilty 
—  I  was  too  weak  to  repulse  him  with  his 
music,  with  his  deceitful  music.  I  am  guilty. 
I  have  wronged  you.  I  have  wronged  my 
parents.  But  God  alone  knows  that  it  was 
beyond  my  power — " 

"I  know,  I  know,"  interposed  Ephraim, 
attempting  to  soothe  her. 

"I  am  not  defending  myself.  I  deserve  to 
suffer,"  she  ejaculated  nervously. 

"Miriam,"  Ephraim  interrupted  her,  "I  for- 
give you.  Even  your  mother  has  forgiven  you. 
She  said  to  me:  'Tell  my  daughter  Miriam, 
may  God  forgive  her  as  I  have  forgiven  her. 
She  is  suffering.'  These  were  her  last  words." 

"Her  last  words?"  Miriam  raised  herself  in 
the  bed,  and  grasping  his  arm,  stared  into  his 
eyes  searchingly,  with  alarm.  "Tell  me,  how 
is  my  mother?  Tell  me.  Is  she  well?"  Her 
voice  shook  with  anxiety. 
[196] 


Ephraim  and  Miriam 


Ephraim,  unable  to  withstand  her  gaze, 
lowered  his  eyes,  and  replied,  in  a  low  voice: 

"She  is  not  suffering." 

Miriam  understood.  With  a  dull  sob  she 
sank  back  on  the  pillow  and,  tearing  her  hair, 
cried : 

"  Mame,  Mame, —  I  have  shortened  your  life." 

Ephraim  sat,  with  bowed  head,  choking  with 
tears.  He  recalled  how  Beile  Reize  had  asked 
him  to  come  over  to  her  bedside,  and  said  to 
him:  "Hannah  lost  seven  sons;  but  they  all 
died  for  the  Holiness  of  His  name.  She  could 
die  peacefully.  But  I  —  my  first  daughter 
brought  darkness  into  my  heart,  my  second 
daughter  took  the  light  from  my  eyes.  God 
knows  what  has  become  of  them.  But  I  have 
heard  that  Miriam  is  suffering,  that  she  is  sick. 
If  you  ever  see  her,  tell  her,  —  may  God  forgive 
her  as  I  am  forgiving  her.  And  for  this  God 
will  bless  you,  my  child,  Ephraim." 

In  the  adjoining  room  people  meanwhile 
gathered  for  supper.  On  the  floor  below  some 
one  was  practising  on  a  violin,  playing  a  few 
bars  of  a  popular  melody,  stopping  every 
little  while,  then  starting  again,  and  again 
[i97l 


Contrite  Hearts 


stopping  at  the  same  place.  The  window  of 
Miriam's  room,  facing  the  yard,  was  open. 
Ephraim  noticed  a  consumptive  old  man  sitting 
by  an  open  window,  on  the  opposite  side, 
coughing.  He  bent  together  as  he  coughed, 
and  then  tried  to  draw  a  deep  breath.  The  air 
was  suffocating.  By  another  window  sat  a 
sad-faced  young  man,  his  head  reclining  on 
one  side,  his  eyes  half  closed,  playing  an  accor- 
dion. On  the  third  floor  a  young  woman  was 
talking  with  her  neighbor  through  the  window. 

"What  have  you  for  supper  to-night?"  she 
asked. 

"Cold  sour  soup  with  potatoes!"  replied  the 
neighbor. 

"We  have  the  same.     My  husband  likes  it 
better  than  the  finest  roast  duck." 

Yonder  a  little  boy  crept  up  on  the  fire  escape 
and  sang  at  the  top  of  his  voice:  "My  country, 
'tis  of  thee,  Sweet  land  of  liberty,  Of  thee  I 
sing—  A  deep  basso  was  humming  some- 
where the  marseillaise.  And  the  violinist  kept 
screeching,  screeching,  as  if  mocking  Miriam, 
reminding  her  what  it  was  that  had  lured  her 
away  from  her  happiness. 
[198] 


Ephraim  and  Miriam 


In  the  dining-room  the  eaters  were  discussing 
with  animation  Schopenhauer  and  Ibsen  and 
Tolstoy  and  Karl  Marx;  the  chairman  of  the 
women's  lodges  was  laboring  industriously  and 
noisily  over  his  meal,  quoting  now  from  the 
Talmud,  now  reiterating  his  opinion  that  the 
stomach  ruled  the  world.  The  ex-soldier  spoke 
enthusiastically  of  his  experiences  in  the  army. 
Hyman  the  operator  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
said:  "Eh,  whom  does  it  concern?"  and  the 
Moscow  merchant  and  his  wife  bustled  about, 
serving  tea  to  their  customers. 

The  Russian  student  arose  and  started  "Ochi 
chorniya."  But  the  keeper  of  the  private  res- 
taurant begged  him  not  to  sing,  and,  pointing 
at  the  door,  shook  his  head,  and  whispered: 

"Their  mother  died!" 

As  soon  as  Ephraim  went  away  Esther  re- 
turned from  the  shop  where  she  had  worked 
overtime.  Miriam  was  softly  sobbing  when  her 
sister  entered. 

"What  is  it,  Miriam?"  asked  Esther. 

"  Our  mame  is  no  more.  Our  dear  mother  is 
no  more!"  she  cried. 

The  sisters  wept  until  midnight.  Then 
[i99l 


Contrite  Hearts 


Esther  turned  down  the  gas,  lit  a  candle,  re- 
moved her  shoes,  handed  one  Bible  to  Miriam, 
seated  herself  on  the  ground,  opened  the  other 
Bible,  and  began  to  read,  slowly,  in  a  low  voice: 
"There  was  a  man  in  the  land  of  Uz,  whose 
name  was  Job;  and  that  man  was  perfect  and 
upright,  and  one  that  feared  God,  and  eschewed 
evil." 


faoo] 


CHAPTER  VI 

DAYS  OF  MOURNING 

DURING  the  Seven  Days  of  mourning  Eph- 
raim  came  twice  to  console  Miriam.  Each 
time  he  found  her  absorbed  in  the  Book  of  Job. 
Near  her  bed,  on  a  footstool,  sat  Esther,  shoe- 
less, also  poring  over  Job. 

In  accordance  with  the  custom,  Ephraim  did 
not  greet  the  mourners.  Esther's  presence  in 
Miriam's  room  so  overwhelmed  him  that  he 
remained  as  petrified  at  the  door  for  some  time. 
Then,  without  uttering  a  word,  he  seated  him- 
self, bowed  his  head,  and  lowered  his  eyes  to 
the  ground. 

After  a  prolonged  silence,  Esther  inquired,  in 
a  faint  voice,  about  the  health  of  her  father,  her 
grandfather,  the  children,  and  Mendel. 

Ephraim,  his  hands  clasped,  his  eyes  still 
cast  down,  told  them  that  their  father  became 
weak  and  bent  from  trouble,  but  that  his  suffer- 

[201] 


Contrite  Hearts 


ings  did  not  shake  his  faith  in  God  for  a  single 
moment,  —  that  in  time  of  misery  he  kept 
saying:  "The  ways  of  the  Lord  are  a  mystery 
to  us  mortals." 

Ephraim  told  them  that  their  grandfather 
was  preparing  to  come  to  America  to  his  son 
Mendel,  now  that  his  only  daughter  was  no 
more.  Ephraim  described  how  Beile  Reize 
passed  away,  how  a  half  hour  before  death  had 
overtaken  her,  she  begged  the  Lord  for  forgive- 
ness, blessed  the  children,  took  leave  of  everyone, 
then  read  the  night  prayers,  and  sank  peacefully 
into  eternal  rest. 

Later  he  related  to  them  how  their  brother 
Yosele  was  crippled  by  a  band  of  Russian  boys 
while  he  was  on  the  way  to  the  synagogue. 

Esther  and  Miriam  looked  at  him  with  moist 
eyes,  and  their  pale  lips  quivered.  Ephraim 
recalled  that  Naphtoli  the  watchmaker's  lips 
had  quivered  thus  when  Beile  Reize's  coffin 
was  carried  out  of  the  little  house  on  the  hill. 

"Our  father  is  more  patient  than  Job,  and 
he  has  been  tested  more  severely,"  said  Esther. 
In  her  voice  rang  agitation  and  compassion, 
mingled  with  self-reproach  and  despair. 


Days  of  Mourning 


It  was  a  cheerless,  dreary  afternoon.  Dark 
clouds  hung  threateningly,  covering  the  face  of 
day.  The  air  was  oppressive,  stifling.  Eph- 
raim's  mind  was  now  thronged  with  the  details 
of  Beile  Reize's  funeral  which  had  fallen  on  a 
cloudy  day  like  this.  In  his  ears  resounded  the 
shrill  cry  of  Arke  when  two  little  sacks  rilled  with 
Palestine-earth  were  placed  upon  his  mother's 
eyes  just  before  she  was  lowered  into  the  grave. 

"Mame  is  alive!"  shrieked  the  boy.  "Her 
eyes  moved!" 

Ephraim  remembered  how,  returning  from 
the  cemetery,  the  boy  kept  looking  backward 
with  fright,  listening  for  the  faintest  noise.  It 
seemed  to  Arke  that  he  heard  the  angel  knock- 
ing on  the  grave  with  his  staff,  asking  in  a  dull 
voice:  "What  is  thy  name?"  and  his  mother 
replying,  faintly:  "Beile  Reize,  the  daughter  of 
Naphtoli."  The  boy  shuddered  and  clung  to 
the  coat-tails  of  his  father. 

Soon  before  Ephraim's  imagination  arose  the 
pathetic  figures  of  Isroel  and  Naphtoli  as  they 
returned  from  the  "House  of  Life,"  — their 
sighs  and  sobs  and  moans  mingling  with  the 
heart-rending  cries  of  the  children. 
[203] 


Contrite  Hearts 


Now  when  he  looked  at  Miriam  and  Esther, 
at  their  sunken  eyes,  at  their  pale  lips,  at  their 
drawn-out  faces  stamped  with  suffering,  they 
seemed  to  him  like  little  birds  that  had  been 
snatched  by  cruel  hands  from  their  peaceful 
nest,  and  left  to  struggle,  to  pine  away  for  lack 
of  nourishment,  in  a  stifling  atmosphere. 

Towards  evening  it  began  to  rain.  Several 
people  gathered  around  the  supper-table  in  the 
adjoining  room  and  as  usual  discussed  various 
subjects.  This  time  the  old  Luria  denounced  all 
sorts  of  exploiters,  and  ridiculed  the  world  for 
appreciating  the  artificial  in  preference  to  the 
genuine. 

"You  have  perhaps  heard  of  the  beggars  of 
Clevan,  —  they  are  all  a  set  of  natural  singers," 
said  the  old  man.  "Their  songs  are  as  sweet 
as  the  songs  of  the  nightingales.  When  they 
sing  you  would  give  them  your  last  shirt  away 
just  to  have  them  sing  on  and  on,  without  end. 
Well,  comes  a  cantor,  one  of  those  who  know 
music,  and  gives  the  beggar  a  loaf  of  bread  and 
perhaps  a  herring,  too,  —  and  the  poor  fellow 
sings  for  him  all  day  long.  The  cantor  takes 
down  the  songs  on  notes  and  then  pieces  them 
[**] 


Days  of  Mourning 


together,  and  goes  about  all  over  Russia,  from 
town  to  town,  praying  to  the  tunes  of  the  poor 
beggar's  songs,  and  charging  a  hundred  rubles 
each  time  he  prays.  Is  not  this  exploitation?" 

The  Russian  student  held  that  such  exploita- 
tion was  beneficial  to  the  world  and  was  there- 
fore justifiable. 

"You  can  buy  a  nightingale  for  five  dollars," 
he  declared  enthusiastically,  "and  yet  when 
Patti  sings  like  a  nightingale  she  gets  a  thousand 
dollars  for  a  concert.  You  can  buy  a  piece  of 
land  for  a  hundred  dollars,  but  if  a  great  artist 
will  reproduce  the  same  landscape  on  canvas, 
he  will  get  for  it  five  thousand  dollars  or  more. 
The  cantor  who  sets  the  beggar's  songs  to  music 
renders  a  great  service  to  the  world,  —  he  pre- 
serves for  posterity  that  which  would  otherwise 
have  died  together  with  the  beggar." 

The  old  Talmudist  retorted  that  the  student 
was  contradicting  himself  in  his  illustrations, 
and  a  heated  argument  ensued. 

Ephraim,  listening  to  these  words,  arose  and 
walked  through  the  room  several  times.  A 
storm  of  bitterness  was  raging  in  his  heart. 

"Everywhere  they  talk  of  art,  of  philosophy, 
[**] 


Contrite  Hearts 


of  music,"  he  thought.  "Here  came Bobrovsky, 
a  dreamer;  Saul,  an  artist,  a  musician;  and 
thrusting  their  dreams  of  saving  the  down- 
trodden people,  their  bewitching  music,  into  a 
happy,  peaceful  nest,  shattered  it." 

"After  the  Seven  Days  of  mourning,"  he  sud- 
denly said  aloud,  in  a  trembling  voice,  facing 
the  sisters,  "you  ought  to  move  out  of  this 
house.  Get  away  from  these  surroundings, 
from  this  atmosphere,  from  these  empty  sounds 
about  art,  philosophy,  ideals.  Try  to  find  a 
place  like  your  own  home,  —  among  such  people 
as  your  father,  as  your  mother  was;  among 
people  who  do  everything  simply,  sincerely, 
calmly,  honestly;  among  people  who  believe 
simply,  who  love  simply,  who  pray  simply,  sin- 
cerely, with  the  artlessness  of  children."  He 
turned  and,  pointing  toward  the  dining-room, 
resumed:  "These  people  who  talk  in  sugar- 
coated  phrases,  —  beware  of  them !  they  will 
not  stop  at  anything  if  you  chance  to  stand  in 
their  way;  for  nothing  is  sacred  to  them,  ex- 
cept their  own  interests." 

******* 

Soon  after  Esther  and  Miriam  had  "risen" 
[ao6J 


Days  of  Mourning 


from  the  Seven  Days  of  mourning,  a  ray  of  hope 
brightened  their  cheerless  life.  Mendel  came 
from  Pittsburg  and  told  them  that  their  father, 
together  with  his  father,  and  the  children,  were 
already  on  the  way  to  America.  This  threw 
the  sisters  into  a  state  of  breathless  expectancy. 
Dreams  of  rebuilding  their  home  anew  invigo- 
rated them,  though  they  felt  that,  without  their 
mother,  nothing  would  ever  restore  all  the 
happiness  that  once  reigned  in  their  home,  —  in 
the  little  house  by  the  Dniepr. 

They  resolved  to  lighten,  at  least,  their  father's 
burdens  towards  his  declining  days,  —  to  work 
hard  and,  by  their  earnings,  maintain  the  house- 
hold so  that  the  old  man  might  rest,  devoting 
his  days  to  the  Torah. 

They  wanted  to  do  it  all  by  themselves,  with- 
out the  aid  of  Mendel  or  of  Ephraim,  —  as  if  to 
expiate  by  the  sweat  of  their  brows  the  wrongs 
they  had  committed  against  their  father,  —  to 
atone  for  his  sufferings  by  unceasing  toil. 

They  prayed  that  no  misfortune  should  befall 
their  folk  on  land,  that  the  sea  should  not  be  rough 
while  they  were  crossing  it,  —  that  woes  and  sor- 
rows should  henceforth  be  strangers  unto  them. 
[207] 


Contrite  Hearts 


Soon  four  rooms  were  hired  within  a  block 
from  the  Rubins;  furniture  was  bought,  and 
Esther  spent  all  her  leisure  hours  in  bringing 
things  in  order  at  their  new  home.  She  procured 
portraits  of  Rabbi  Izkhok  Elkhonon,  of  the 
Gaon  of  Vilna,  of  Moses  Montefiore  and  of 
Baron  de  Hirsch,  and  hung  them  on  the  walls 
of  the  front  room.  Beneath  the  portraits  of 
the  Rabbis  she  hung  two  velvet  Tfilin 1  bags  for 
Yosele  and  Arke,  on  which  Miriam  had  em- 
broidered in  gold  the  shield  of  David. 

Meanwhile  Ephraim  secured  for  Miriam  the 
best  medical  attendance,  and  her  condition  was 
improving  by  degrees.  Her  face  regained  its 
natural  color,  in  her  eyes  occasionally  flashed 
the  fire  of  life  as  in  bygone  days,  —  she  was 
gradually  becoming  the  Miriam  Ephraim  had 
known  and  loved  in  Moghilydv. 

Mendel  had  learned  Esther's  sad  history  from 
Ephraim,  and  he  never  spoke  to  her  about  that 
period  of  her  life.  Nor  did  she  tell  him  of  her 
disillusionment. 

One  evening,  while  walking  with  Esther  on 
East  Broadway,  Mendel  said  to  her: 

1  Phylacteries. 
[208] 


Days  of  Mourning 


"To-morrow  your  father  will  arrive.  He 
does  not  know  that  you  are  here.  He  will 
surely  ask  you  many  questions  when  you  come 
to  stay  with  him.  You  know  he  is  upright  but 
exacting.  Esther,  let  us  surprise  him,"  Mendel 
suddenly  burst  out  with  intense  emotion. 
"Esther,  do  you  not  know,  do  you  not  feel,  that 
even  then  —  much  before  we  parted  —  I  loved 
you  with  all  my  soul.  I  ask  you  no  questions 
about  what  has  happened  since  that  time.  You 
remember  that  stormy  night,  in  the  Park,  by  the 
Dniepr.  You  were  inexperienced,  you  were 
carried  away  by  coruscating  illusions.  You 
erred!  Enough!  You  have  suffered  long  enough. 
Let  us  surprise  your  father.  Esther,  drop  the 
machine,  the  shop." 

Esther  gazed  into  his  eyes,  and  maintained 
silence,  while  he  went  on,  feverishly: 

"Let  your  father  find  his  daughter  en- 
gaged to  be  married  to  Mendel, — not  to  Bob- 
rovsky." 

"That  will  never  be,"  said  Miriam,  firmly, 
"that  can  never  be.  You  say  I  erred.  You 
say  I  was  inexperienced,  carried  away  by  illu- 
sions. I  erred  consciously.  I  blame  no  one. 

f209] 


Contrite  Hearts 


I  now  must  bear  the  consequences  of  my  errors 
in  my  heart  —  alone  — " 

"Not  you  alone  have  suffered.  Remember 
your  mother."  Tear-drops  glistened  in  Men- 
del's eyes,  and  he  spoke  no  more. 


[«*] 


CHAPTER  VII 


ESTHER  and  Miriam  rose  early  next  morning, 
and  hastened  to  put  the  finishing  touches  to 
their  new  home,  endeavoring  to  make  it  look 
like  their  old  home  in  Russia.  They  also 
cooked  stuffed  fish,  baked  twined  white  loaves 
of  bread,  in  honor  of  the  Sabbath,  prepared 
dinner,  and  went  back  to  their  room  in  Henry 
Street. 

Mendel  and  Ephraim  were  accompanied  by 
a  committee  representing  the  congregation  of 
their  townspeople  when  they  went  to  meet  the 
cantor  and  his  family  at  the  threshold  of  the 
New  World. 

Before  sunset  they  went  to  the  synagogue, 
and  Isroel  offered  the  evening  prayer,  receiving 
the  "bride"  Sabbath  with  all  the  sweetness  and 
vigor  of  his  voice;  and  those  that  remembered 
his  manner  of  praying  in  Granat's  synagogue,  as 

[211] 


Contrite  Hearts 


well  as  those  who  had  never  heard  him  pray 
before,  quivered  with  awe,  when  he  declaimed 
in  soul-stirring  accents:  "Awaken,  awaken,  for 
thy  light  has  come." 

Every  heart  in  the  house  of  prayer  was  moved 
by  the  earnestness  of  the  interpretation  of  the 
beautiful  song-poem. 

After  the  prayer,  Isroel's  three  sons,  Yoshke, 
Arke,  and  Shleimke,  said  Kaddish,  for  the  re- 
pose of  their  mother's  soul,  and  the  congregation 
responded  with  long-drawn  amens. 

The  cantor's  new  home  was  brightly  illumined 
by  gaslight;  the  table  was  set  exactly  as  Beile 
Reize  was  wont  to  set  it  for  the  Sabbath,  —  the 
candlesticks  with  the  Sabbath  candles  burning 
in  them,  the  two  loaves  of  twined  bread,  partly 
covered  with  an  embroidered  red  cloth,  the 
wine,  the  cup,  and  the  stuffed  fish,  —  all 
arranged  as  in  the  little  house  on  Granat's  hill, 
of  a  Friday  night. 

Upon  their  return  from  the  synagogue,  Naph- 
toli,  surrounded  by  all  the  children,  began  to 
relate  to  Mendel  some  of  the  hardships  they  had 
experienced  at  the  frontier,  in  Hamburg,  and  on 
the  steamship,  and  Isroel  meanwhile  removed 

[212] 


The  Land  of  Surprises 


his  hat,  donned  a  skull-cap,  and,  pacing  up  and 
down  the  room,  chanted  softly: 

"Sholem  Aleikhem—  '  "Come  with  peace, 
O  Angels  of  peace,  Heavenly  Angels  —  " 

Presently  Naphtoli  and  Isroel  pronounced  the 
benediction  over  the  wine,  and  a  little  later  all 
washed  their  hands  and  waited  in  silence. 
Isroel  blessed  the  white  loaf  of  bread,  cut  it 
and  handed  each  one  a  slice,  beginning  with 
Naphtoli  and  ending  with  Shleimke.  Then 
all  blessed  the  bread  in  unison,  and  began 
to  eat. 

During  supper  Isroel  and  Naphtoli  talked  of 
their  journey,  of  their  impressions  on  the  way, 
and  together  with  the  children  they  marveled  at 
the  new  and  strange  things  they  saw  and  heard. 
The  elevated  railway,  the  electric  street  cars, 
the  sky-scrapers,  and  the  huge  crowded  tene- 
ments almost  bewildered  them. 

"America  is  a  land  of  surprises!"  Ephraim 
told  them  each  time  a  new  object  was  discussed. 

"It's  full  of  surprises  for  all  of  us!"  he  de- 
clared at  the  close  of  the  after-supper  grace. 
"Here  people  grow  rich  with  fabulous  rapidity, 
and  people  arc  ruined  with  the  quickness  of 


Contrite  Hearts 


lightning.  People  find  here  their  long-lost  hus- 
bands, long-lost  fathers,  sons,  and  daughters." 

Ephraim's  lips  twitched  as  he  spoke,  and  his 
eyes  blinked  strangely. 

Isroel  looked  up  at  him,  shook  his  head 
mournfully,  and  lowered  it  upon  his  breast. 
And  Naphtoli,  open-mouthed,  adjusted  his 
spectacles  and  scrutinized  the  young  man's  face. 

"Everything  is  possible  with  the  Lord!"  said 
Isroel,  softly,  after  a  few  minutes  of  silence. 

"Yes,  God  performs  wonders  in  a  mysterious 
way.  Thus  I  have  found  my  long-lost  bride," 
said  Ephraim.  "I  have  found  your  daughters, 
Reb  Isroel,  and  they  will  be  here,  with  you, 
to-night.  They've  been  waiting  to  come  back 
to  the  embrace  of  their  father,  to  beg  his 
forgiveness." 

"Miriam!"  "Esther!"  "Esther!"  exclaimed 
the  children. 

The  old  men  gazed  perplexedly,  now  at 
Mendel,  now  at  Ephraim,  as  though  doubting 
his  words. 

"Esther!"  muttered  Isroel,  clasping  his  head. 
"Esther!" 

"Forgive    her,    Reb   Isroel,"    said    Mendel 

[214] 


The  Land  of  Surprises 


softly,  laying  his  hand  on  the  cantor's  shoulder. 
"She  has  suffered  so  long.  And  she  is  now 
again  the  Jewish  Esther  that  she  was  before 
that  stormy  night.  Forgive  her,  Reb  Isroel." 

"And  he,  —  the  apostate?"  queried  the  old 
man. 

"He  died  — long  ago,"  replied  Mendel,  "on 
the  way  to  Siberia." 

Isroel  shook  his  head. 

"May  his  name  and  memory — "  he  waved 
his  hand  and  said  no  more. 

The  door  opened,  and  Miriam  and  Esther 
appeared  on  the  threshold.  Both  were  pale  and 
nervous,  and  their  mourning  clothes  accentuated 
their  pallor. 

Miriam  rushed  toward  her  father,  about  to 
embrace  him,  but  he  rose  to  his  full  height  and, 
lifting  his  hand  as  though  to  check  her  approach, 
said  in  a  tremulous  voice: 

"Wait!  I  want  to  speak  to  you  first.  Before 
you  come  back  to  me,  I  must  know  whether  you 
have  repented  everything,  —  all  your  errors.  I 
must  have  a  promise  that  you  will  be  as  true 
Jewish  daughters  should  be,  as  your  mother, 
peace  be  with  her,  was;  that  you  will  observe 
[215] 


Contrite  Hearts 


the  Sabbath,  the  Mosaic  dietary  laws;  that  you 
will—  But  it  is  Sabbath,  we  will  talk  of  this 
to-morrow  night." 

Miriam  clung  to  her  father's  hand  and,  cover- 
ing it  with  burning  kisses,  wept  and  mumbled 
some  indistinct  words. 

Esther  advanced  slowly,  with  bowed  head,  as 
if  the  ground  were  trembling  under  her  feet. 
There  was  an  expression  of  irresoluteness  on 
her  face.  The  sight  of  the  broken  old  man 
before  her  filled  her  being  with  horror.  She 
felt  that  she  could  never  forgive  herself  the 
merciless  blow  she  had  heaped  upon  him  whose 
forgiveness  she  now  sought.  A  muffled  sob 
broke  forth  from  her  heart  when  the  emaciated 
and  bent  old  man,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  out- 
stretched his  trembling  arms,  and  clasped  her 
in  his  embrace. 

Silence  filled  the  house.  The  peace  of  Sab- 
bath reigned  in  every  nook  and  corner  of  the 
light  room.  Isroel  went  over  to  the  window, 
and  stood  there  motionless  for  a  long  time.  His 
bosom  heaved  and  sank  rapidly.  Outside  a 
storm  was  gathering.  The  pedestrians  began 
[216] 


The  Land  of  Surprises 


to  run  in  quest  of  shelter,  a  dull  rattling  of 
passing  wagons  smote  the  air.  A  flash  of  light- 
ning rent  the  sky,  a  thunder  pealed  and  a  heavy 
rain  began  to  fall.  Isroel  looked  at  the  huge, 
gruesome  giants  of  stone  opposite  him,  and 
through  the  darkness  and  the  heavy  rain  he  saw 
the  flickering  lights  of  Sabbath  candles  in  the 
windows  here  and  there.  He  closed  his  eyes  and 
prayed  to  God,  offering  Him  his  gratitude  for 
bringing  him  to  the  New  World,  and  begged 
Him  to  guide  all  Israel  in  the  ways  of  right- 
eousness, here,  in  the  land  of  freedom. 

THE  END 


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